


All By Myself

by TellMeNoAgain



Series: Roaring Hot [10]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Noir, Dark Harley, Dark Tony, Dubious Consent, Everyone Is Poly Because Avengers, F/M, M/M, Mental Instability, Mob Boss Tony Stark, Mob Typical Violence, Multi, Period Typical Attitudes, Period Typical Language, Polyamory, dark bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-05-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:53:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 45,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23368006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TellMeNoAgain/pseuds/TellMeNoAgain
Summary: Part 10 of the "Tony Stark is an insane 1920's Mob Boss and there's sex everywhere" fic, which, okay, SOME OF YOU ARE ASKING FOR MORE. I'll write more as long as you ask for it, ya crazy mooks.~~~Sometimes the world isn't safe, even for a Stark.
Relationships: BASICALLY EVERYBODY/EVERYBODY - Relationship, Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Harley Keener/James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Harley Keener/Peter Parker, Harley Keener/Peter Parker/Tony Stark, Harley Keener/Tony Stark, James "Bucky" Barnes/Peter Parker/Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Tony Stark/Natasha Romanov, Tony Stark/Pepper Potts
Series: Roaring Hot [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1591804
Comments: 794
Kudos: 488





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the amazing mindwiped and jf4m, THANK YOU SO SO SO MUCH. I'm sorry if you now need to clean up your soul. I'll... I'll pay for the cleaning, just get me the receipts. As always, any remaining errors are all mine.
> 
> If you've read darkfic before, proceed, mine is pretty tame so far (later chapters may get worse, although it sure SEEMS like everything is getting better, doesn't it?).
> 
> If you HAVEN'T read darkfic, let's have a quick chat about the genre. Darkfics are full of dubious consent, even abuse. This one will skirt the edges of that second option. There will be dubiously consentful sex, which you will be able to interpret either direction, your choice. There will be period-appropriate racism, sexism, all kinds of -ism. There will be prostitution and drugs and a bunch of violence, including strong corporal punishment and what looks like domestic abuse to me. It's hard to say, because the victim sure seems fine with it, but it also might be some heavy gaslighting. Because I know underage squicks so many people, Peter will be of age when the sex starts, but that doesn't mean that the characters aren't going to mess with him (and turning 18 is not a magic wand for sexual relationships to be healthy). Darkfic is fun because it's not reality and it can let you have some nervous experiences without actually being endangered. Please proceed with your comfort level. You can email me at tellmenoagainplease@gmail.com if you want to check in about specific triggers.

Peter’s full concentration is on the wind, the feel of it against his face, the movement of the tree branches, the sound of the sighing through the boughs. He’s so focused on trying to adjust, to shift, to picture the invisible air as a liquid thing the arrow must fly through to reach the target that the hand reaching out to grip the arrow comes as a complete shock and he stumbles back into Clint’s chest with a puff of air.

“Clint?” he asks, in disbelief. No one said they’d be getting home today!

“Don’t you Clint me,” growls the man, scowling, as Peter twists to face him, smiling in delight. “What’s this, where the hell are your shoes?”

Peter swallows, feeling shock shake into him. His mind races, because the truth is, Steve and Bucky were both up late last night. There was some kind of ruckus, something that woke the whole house last night, and so they are both sleeping in this morning. Tony, Pepper, and Harley never come out to the range and it’s so hot, it’s blistering hot, and just this once, he didn’t shove his boots on when he got up the hill. If the casings burn him, fine, he’d deserve it, but he doesn’t wear long sleeves, either, he takes his chances already with burns and Clint’s never said anything and anyway, he’s on to the bow and arrow, and shoes aren’t going to-

Clint shakes him, interrupting his frantic chain of thought to growl, “Where. The hell. Are your _shoes_?”

Peter swallows again and shakes his head because dammit, he was going to show Clint, show him how he kept up the practicing. And it’s not that hot, he should be wearing the boots, it was an impulse to leave them off. He does know better, he does, he remembers all the safety warnings, every single one Clint ever told him. 

“Are these-?” asks Natasha’s cool voice to the right and Peter winces as she holds up his pair of boots, dropped by the first wooden beam of the range’s rough shelter. 

“Yeah,” he mutters, face flaming. This is not how he wanted to see them, first thing back from their tour. “I just-”

“Just wanted to lose a toe,” grunts Clint. “Or blister them feet again.” Peter winces again as Natasha’s eyes narrow at him when he looks over at her. “Go put ‘em on. Watch where you step.”

Peter slinks over to Natasha, who drops the boots on the ground in front of her. He slips his feet in and turns to face Clint because Clint is definitely the more visibly enraged of the two.

“How many mornings have you been up here without shoes,” presses Clint, arms crossing over his chest. His arms are really impressive, notes Peter, glancing up quickly.

“Just this morning,” mutters Peter, returning his gaze to somewhere down by the man’s knees.

“I’m supposed to believe that?” asks Clint scornfully.

“Steve or Bucky usually checks on me,” Peter tells him, stung. “So I usually wear ‘em-”

“Are you telling me, Peter Stark,” says Clint in a clipped voice, “That the only reason you wear shoes up at the range, after I spent all that time explaining basic safety to you before leaving, is that Steve and Bucky are checking up on you?”

“Uh,” says Peter, stupidly, mind racing for another reason. “No?” He shifts his weight, because he should follow that ‘no’ with more words, and explain himself, he knows that. He should. He just can’t think of any in the long pause that follows. He needs Harley, he thinks wildly. Harley would know what to say.

“And you knew they would not check up on you this morning?” asks Natasha in that heavy accent of hers. She manages to sound both amused and disapproving at the same time and Peter winces again.

“Y-yeah,” he admits. “They, last night, there was a problem, the whole house was up, I’m the only one who didn’t have plans to sleep in this morning.”

“Are you pulling my leg,” growls Clint, his hands making an impatient gesture at Natasha. “Are you- did you seriously take advantage of the fact that people would be sleeping in to ignore common sense? I thought you were some kind of whiz genius, the way Phil and Tony and Pepper go on about your smarts.”

“It’s Harley,” sighs Natasha heavily, her lips quirking in a wry grimace. “He spends so much time with Harley, you heard Tony, with the motorcycle races. He rubs on.”

“Rubs off,” corrects Clint, clearly exasperated, running a hand through his hair. “And we kept Peter, I thought, because Boss was impressed about him being a good influence on the Cat.”

Peter winces. Yeah, he’s heard that, too. 

There’s silence, then, for a long moment.

Natasha says wryly, “Hello, Angel. So good to be home.”

“Hi, Tasha,” says Peter shyly, glancing up at her face to see if she’s mad or disappointed. She doesn’t seem to be, but she’s a hard read.

“Oh, hell,” breathes Clint, shaking himself a little. Peter startles, stepping back a pace, eyes flying to Clint’s freezing glare. The man takes a deep breath and then... gives Peter a smile. It’s a tight smile, but it’s a _smile_. Peter feels a little dizzy with relief as the man says, his posture relaxing and his tone a little rueful, “Hi, Angel. Good to see you. Been missing you.” 

His hands twitch a little and that’s all Peter needs, really, because he _does_ know better, he _does_ , and he’s so grateful Clint seems to be okay with him, not really mad or disappointed. He barrels into Clint, who catches him easily, huffing a chuckle, and wraps his arms around Peter. “Yeah, yeah, wiseguy, missed you, too. I was all excited not to miss another practice. I had Tasha go to bed early last night so we could light out early this morning.” He holds Peter for a moment, resting his chin on Peter’s head, then adds, “Saw your grip, you got calluses now, I can tell,” in a proud tone of voice.

Peter knows his grin is goofy as he glances over at Natasha and tells them both, “Harley got whupped, you missed it, you missed everything! But I been practicing, every day. I ain’t missed one, Mr. Barton, I promise.”

“Only the once in so many weeks?” asks Natasha, looking over Peter’s head at Clint with a false shocked expression. “You see, the Angel is a good rub off on Harley.”

“Knowing Harley,” chuckles Clint, pushing Peter back a pace to turn back to the table and fiddle with the equipment, “that ain’t even a missed translation. Peter’s likely a good rub off by now, ain’t ya, kid?” he says, with a wicked grin at Peter.

Peter clears his throat uncomfortably, which makes them both laugh, Clint first and then Natasha, as she unwinds all of the double meanings and his reaction.

“I had to do lines for Pepper,” Peter feels compelled to add. 

“No, you? For walking over hot gun casings or what?” teases Clint, checking the arrows for signs of wear and tear.

“Running,” mutters Peter, rolling his eyes. “At the chariot racetrack, when we first- it’s not important,” he interrupts himself. “I got scared and I ran from Steve and Pepper made me do lines.”

There’s silence and then Natasha says, uncertainly, “And these lines, they… hurt?”

Clint scoffs as Peter rushes to inform her, “No, not really, Pepper never would hurt me, I bet. It wasn’t like I did it on purpose, I just got scared and lit out. Steve had to catch me, though, and then she had me write out that we, uh, we Starks stick together, so I’d remember it. And I do,” he adds, as a promise to them. “I will.”

“Good,” says Natasha, still a little uncertain. “That is… I will talk with her, but it is good you will not run from Steve. Yes, Clint?”

Clint makes a choking noise and says elliptically, “I mean, could work.”

“Has anyone made you your coffee?” asks Natasha, in that sudden way of hers.

“Aww, no,” says Peter, rolling his eyes and sighing, because that is a standard daily drawback to life these days. “Usually I’m up before everyone and I just catch some, you know, when I head inside.”

“This is a shame,” she says seriously. “I will go. You can keep up the practice.”

“Thanks, ‘Tasha,” says Clint easily, and then he slides the bow across the table towards Peter. “Show me whatcha got, kid.”

Peter grins so hard his cheeks hurt and says, “Yessir, Mr. Barton.” Coffee and practice with Clint. August is starting out the bee’s knees of months, with nothing but good surprises.

~~~

His fingers are sore and his shoulders aching before Clint calls a halt, and he’s downed the mug Natasha brought him. Her mix is not quite what Bucky and Steve fix for him, but it’s close enough and he wouldn’t complain even if she’d brought it to him black, he’s so damn happy not to be up here by himself getting frustrated without anyone to tell him how to fix it.

“Not too shabby,” says Clint, stretching his own shoulders out and leaning back against the table. “Can tell you’ve been practicing.”

“Not like today,” sighs Peter, rubbing at his wrists. “Got lazy, I guess,” he admits. “Thought I was doing okay just keeping it up. Bucky came up a few times, gave some pointers, and Phil was up here once, too.”

“Hey, go easy on yourself, kid. I bet Harley hasn’t cracked a single McGuffy all summer,” says Clint, sipping from his own mug.

Peter nods, conceding the point.

“Perhaps we should go see if anyone else is awake, now, for breakfast,” says Natasha, with a smile for both of them.

“Yeah, I want to hear about this tussle last night,” agrees Clint. “Angel, you hear anything, any names?”

“No,” says Peter. “Harley said it was Devilside so I closed the door.”

“Yes, good,” agrees Natasha fiercely. “Clint will teach you to be a trickshot, yes, but you are not to mix in with business.”

“I won’t,” promises Peter. “Pepper keeps me busy enough on the Angelside of the Empire. Only Tony’s got the energy to handle both.”

Natasha smiles at him while Clint finishes packing up the equipment, tossing it over his shoulder in the easy way Peter has tried to imitate the last few weeks and gesturing for the two of them to precede him on the path. “Where the Boss gets his energy, I’d like to know,” mutters Clint, loud enough for them both to hear him. “It’s all I can do to just keep up with the one woman.”

Natasha’s smile broadens as she tells him, “Well, I am home now. You can have a short break.”

Clint whistles and scrubs a hand across his forehead in mock relief. “Thought you’d never offer,” he teases her.

They walk in silence for a few steps and then Clint stops and yelps, “Oh, I forgot! Peter, guess what train we rode in on last night?”

“No idea,” laughs Peter, turning to face him.

“Well, what comes on a train, that I promised you I’d take you to see?” teases Clint

Peter’s jaw drops. “The circus?” he breathes, in disbelief. Coffee, practice with Clint, and now the circus is in town, and he’s going to see it? He’s going to _touch a bear?_ August is beyond the bee’s knees, it’s the _cat’s pajamas_.

“The circus,” chuckles Clint, reaching out a hand to scrub through Peter’s hair. “C’mon, kid, let’s go clear your night and see if anyone else wants in. Tasha and the Boss’ll be out painting the town, if I know them.”

“You know us,” agrees Natasha happily. “You must introduce him to the acrobat Peter.”

Clint makes a disgusted noise. “Oh, that brainless mook. Never met a cockier kinker to hit the fly bar. Naw, ‘d rather introduce him to Drax the Invincible, Savage of the Deepest Jungles.”

“Both,” declares Peter. “You can introduce me to both of them. And the bear, you promised the bear.”

“And the bear,” laughs Clint, rubbing his hand over Peter’s shoulders. Peter tosses a delighted grin at Natasha and loves the way her eyes light up back at him in response. 

~~~

It’s mid-afternoon when Clint comes to collect Peter from the pool, where he’s splashing with Harley and Steve and Bucky. “Just got the O.K. from up top,” laughs Clint. “Bucky, Boss wants you for him and ‘Tasha tonight, going to hit up Small Favors and the Brimstone.”

Bucky nods and demands, “What about Harley? He goin’ with you?”

“Ah,” says Clint, eyeing Harley for a moment. “Well, Doc’s in,” he says, awkwardly. Everyone in the pool stills, Peter notices with a little confusion. Bucky and Steve both shoot Harley glances that Peter can’t read, something less than concern but something more than just nothing.

Harley rolls his eyes. “Yous guys act like I don’t need my check up with him once a month, regular. It’s a good night for it, anyway. I can catch the circus tomorrow night, no need to be a looky loo, I seen ‘em set up last summer.” _He_ looks fine, anyway, smiling up at Clint and shrugging his shoulders at Peter when he notices Peter’s gaze. “I don’t mind it, so I don’t see why you do.”

Bucky, Clint, and Steve all make grunting noises and avoid Peter’s curious gaze between them. They’re all frowning the same frown, but Harley’s lips are twisted in an exasperated smile he shares with Peter. Peter shrugs his shoulders back at Harley because he has no idea what’s going on, and then smiles, because he’s going to the circus. Harley smiles back at him and says, “You’re such a dope. The circus is real kid’s stuff, you know that, right?”

Peter beams back at him and nods, climbing out of the pool and heading to the stack of towels sitting on one of the wicker tables.

“I guess I’m with you, at the circus?” asks Steve, hauling himself out after Peter. “Pepper coming?”

“Yeah, so that’s Happy, too,” states Clint, sounding pleased. “Three of us oughta be enough for the two of them, yeah?”

“Might as well go and get the lay of the place,” offers Bucky, pulling Harley down from the side as Harley tries to climb out. He tosses Harley over his shoulder into the pool behind him with a complete lack of strain or effort that makes Peter’s mouth go dry, watching the muscles move across Bucky’s bare chest and back. Harley splutters to the surface, hooting, as Bucky climbs out, saying, “You know Stark’ll be there this weekend with Hellcat, if it’s Clint’s old crew in town.”

“It’s Gamora,” Clint tells Peter with a smile. “The Tattooed Lady. They can’t get enough of her.”

“She’s green, and it goes all the way down,” protests Bucky, smiling wickedly as Harley spits vague threats behind him. “I’d be down tonight if I wasn’t hatchetman for the Boss instead.”

“The green goes all the way down?” Peter asks Clint blankly, sliding into his drawers and hopping into his slacks.

Clint shrugs and says, “Well, I’m no millionaire, she never showed _me_ if it did or not.” He smiles, though, as if in memory. “Wasn’t much looking going on in anything _we_ did together.”

Bucky and Harley hoot with laughter and Steve rolls his eyes, reaching for his pile of clothes. Peter can’t believe he’s going to the circus. He’s going to touch a bear. And maybe a lion, he thinks. Maybe a lion, too.

~~~

They take the Bentley, which makes Peter squirm with silent glee. It’s his favorite of the cars. Happy rides up front with Steve, but Clint rides in the back with Peter and Pepper, telling them stories about circus life that have Peter and Pepper both in stitches. When they pull up to the grounds, there’s a crowd of people pressed up against the fence, of all ages. Clint mutters, “Damn lot lice,” as they get the go-ahead to enter the grounds and are directed over past the wagons and carts to park in a long line of less conspicuous vehicles.

When Clint opens the door, there are shouts from people nearby, “Hawk! Hawkeye! Look at that beak, swoop over here! Hawk!” There are whistles and hoots and some ribbing shouts that cut off abruptly as he hands Pepper out of the vehicle and glares around. 

“Stark!” yelps a single young voice, and then the crowd of working people start clapping and whistling and chanting, “Stark! Stark!” like Pepper in a gauzy white ankle-length dress and hat is an act they’ve come to see. Pepper smiles broadly at them and says, “We came to see if we could help out with set-up. Anyone have any stakes that still need pounding?”

Everyone laughs and Peter’s reminded of a headline in the society pages from last year, showing Tony and Pepper with sledgehammers, Tony leaning on his with an admiring smile at Pepper while she was hefting hers, clearly intent on slamming the stake in front of them. He smiles as a loud voice shouts out, “Naw, now Mrs. Stark, we don’t need a repeat earthquake, dang near launched Thailand offa the map last year.” There’s general laughter and guffawing, but it seems like everyone has three places to be as they rush around. The mood is generally cheerful, minus a couple of faces that seem permanently settled into belligerent scowls.

A man with a pencil-thin mustache comes up to them and says, “Clint, good to see ya. Hey, whaddya think about putting on a show like you did last year, help us grow some alfalfa? Big top, half-hour on the main?”

“Sure, Saturday night?” asks Clint, eyes narrowing. “Stark’ll want to be here, anyway.”

“Gamorra’s ready,” chuckles the man, rolling his eyes. “Won’t take less than $500,” he warns Pepper, who laughs, “He’ll pay. Between him and Harley, she can probably push for double.”

The man laughs and says, “You’re the best sport a man could ask for in a wife,” with clear admiration. 

Pepper smiles and nods graciously at the man, murmuring, “Do mention that to Mr. Stark when you see him.” Peter feels like his heart is full to bursting because Pepper is the most amazing woman on earth. She got so much class, standing with her arm tucked into Happy’s, in her white dress, accepting the rough admiration and camaraderie of the circus folks with gracious ease. She never looks out of place, thinks Peter with a little bit of envy, before shaking himself and realizing what the men had just agreed to.

“You’re gonna be in the show?” Peter asks Clint in awe. 

“So’re you, we’ll do William Tell, Frankie,” says Clint easily. “Unless you’re worried about my aim, Pete,” he teases Peter.

“N-no, sir,” swears Peter feverently.

“Knives, too?” asks Frankie eagerly.

“Yeah, I bet we can get Natasha down,” agrees Clint, and then he turns to tease Peter, “Unless you’re worried about _her_ aim?”

“I wouldn’t dare,” breathes Peter, and Pepper and Happy break into chuckles next to him.

“Well, that’s settled. Which way to the costume cart?” laughs Clint.

“Bear first?” negotiates Peter, because he was _promised_ a bear.

Clint hoots, “Yeah, ok, bears first!”

~~~

There’s so much to see, as people bustle this way and that. Peter’s neck quickly develops a crick from all the craning he does to take in everything around him. It’s amazing, the way it resembles an anthill all stirred up. People are shouting and chuckling and swearing and sweating and running to and from. Clint lets Peter hold one of the ropes as they hoist the big top’s canvas and Peter doesn’t even care that he hasn’t seen the bear yet, this is the most exciting thing he’s ever been a part of. Pepper grips one, too, beside him, to the delight of all of the laborers, who whistle and cheer her on. Peter smiles at her, and she smiles back, serene and clearly thrilled to be behind the scenes, too.

Clint seems to know everyone, and while no one runs up to him for hugs, they all have something quick and funny to say to him, some tidbit of news to share. There are tall people and short people and, indeed, a woman whose visible skin is all green wanders up at one point to greet him. She seems wary of Pepper, who gives her a cheerful grin and wave. Peter tries very hard not to stare but there’s so much to stare at.

“Peter!” shouts Clint, from a few feet away, “C’mere, meet Rocket.”

Obediently, Peter turns away from the two women and trots over to Clint, and the short, uh, man, beside him. Clearly it’s a man. It’s wearing pants.

“Nice ta meet ya, kid,” says the… man, putting out a… hand. Paw. No, _hand_ , Peter corrects himself, shaking it gingerly.

“Nice to meet you, sir,” he says, because if Pepper can smile at Gamorra, who’s going to be paid $500 to do Lord knows what for Tony, he can remember his manners with the… man.

“Rocket’s the Raccoon man,” says Clint proudly. “And he’s a tinker like you, loves taking things apart, putting them back together. If he can’t fix it, it’s time to toss it, and if he can’t build you one, it’s just a pipe dream.”

The raccoon man smiles sunnily up at Peter and he tries not to stare, but there’s so much… _hair_.

“I dye it,” he informs Peter happily, rubbing his cheeks. “The rubes are bored with just the dog-face boy or the werewolf or lookin’ at a hairy guy, they seen it all, real jaded. But you dye it and man, they’ll drop that cabbage right in the box for a chance to stare.”

“He’s a regular Petrus Gonsalvus,” says Clint admiringly. Peter tosses him a confused look and he says, with a lofty air, “The Beast, the original Beast from the Beauty and the Beast, you read so much, you know that one, right?”

Peter shakes his head and Rocket laughs, “Not everyone knows circus lore, Hawkeye. ‘S’okay, Peter, just another hairy guy like me, advisor to kings and stuff. Was real important to me once upon a time, back when Hawkeye was riding circuit with us. Say, where’s the knives?”

“Out cutting rugs tonight,” laughs Clint. He’s lit up here on the circus grounds in a way he isn’t anywhere else, except when Phil’s around, realizes Peter, but there’s tension underneath it that Peter doesn’t like. He’s louder and flashier, yes, but Peter hears Phil’s voice telling him to watch the shoulders and the hips, and the choppiness of his movements tells Peter all he needs to know about Clint’s bright-seeming mood.

Rocket shakes his head, “Only you,” he sneers, “Would send the dame to go cut rugs while you haul on the ropes.”

“Missed you, too, Rat,” sneers Clint, and for one moment the two men look like they’re either about to hug or punch each other, and then Rocket looks away and says, “You seen Quill?”

“Hoping to miss him, actually,” says Clint brightly, and Rocket snorts.

“Yeah, like that’ll happen,” he mutters, before saying, “The twig misses you, probably over by the animals, trying to help settle ‘em in.”

“Takin’ the kid there next,” agrees Clint with a nod, and then he shouts over to Pepper and Happy, “You good?” Pepper smiles and nods, waving him away to continue her chat with Gamorra, intent on what the woman is saying. He shakes his head in amusement at something before calling, “Heading to the menagerie, find us there!” 

Gamorra shouts back, “Stay away from Quill, I don’t need that headache tonight.”

Clint waves a hand at her jauntily in lieu of a promise to obey, before putting it on Peter’s shoulder and steering him through the space around the big top over to the brightly painted carts lined up to one side of the fairgrounds. 

Something roars and Peter shivers, so excited he can feel each individual hair on his body stand up, electrified and excited. A young man runs up to them and Peter smothers his shock because there’s something very wrong with the man’s skin, it looks so rough, like, like bark, and his hair is close cropped and dyed green, like moss. “I am Groot,” he shouts at Peter and Peter smiles back. “I am Peter,” offers Peter, which seems to please the man, because he throws long lanky arms around Peter and gives him a hug.

“Groot, you twig, you sprang another two inches since last night, I swear,” says Clint, clearly pleased.

“I am Groot,” says the man, with a wave of his hand at his body as if that explains everything. Peter peers at him, trying not to be rudely curious, as Clint explains to Peter, “Won’t say anything but that, you gotta learn his language to talk to him, but he’s a good sort. Handy in a fight,” he tells Groot, who grins sunnily back at him and then gestures Peter and Clint towards the menagerie. “I am Groot,” he sighs, and Clint says, “Yeah, long days for everyone. Hated set-up the worst. Still, mostly done, big top canvas went up, now it’s just undoing the hatches and loosening the stays and getting ready for opening tomorrow. Peter here wants to see the bears, you think we could go let Misha out?”

“I am Groot,” says the man happily, and Peter marvels because the man can sure pack a lot of layering into just those three words.

“Sweet,” replies Clint, with a wink at Peter, who is still tingling with excitement and covered in gooseflesh.

Groot leads them through the maze of carts, which are mostly closed up with only the sound of chirping and grunting and hooting and smells to give hints as to the animal inside, until they come to a dark red car and Groot pauses a moment, head tilted. There’s bright paint on the side, and a carved image of mountains and trees and a big black bear on the side of the cart, but surely the man has seen it every day of his life here. Peter can’t figure out why Groot has stopped- until a seedy-looking man steps out of the shadows and grunts, “Hawkeye. Welcome home.”

“Get behind me,” hisses Clint, flinging an arm across Peter’s chest and drawing his gun. Peter’s knocked back a step and that feeling of gooseflesh intensifies as he spots four more men stepping forward out of the darkness towards them.

The man chuckles and says, “You think I came alone, little brother?” and then there’s a flurry of limbs and bodies. Groot is knocked to the ground, Peter sees that, around the blockade of Clint’s body, and then Clint is pushing Peter back, but there’s men, there, too, men _behind_ them, and one of them has a gun, too, pointed at Peter, with the nasty smile behind it promising immediate action should Peter get foolish. After another flurry of motion- someone kicks the gun out of Clint’s hands, Peter sees that, shocked- the gun is pressed to Peter’s temple.

“Gotta message,” says the first man, smiling at Clint, who has three guns pointed at him that Peter can see, and probably more aimed in from odd angles. “From the Kingpin. Told him you’d be here for sure, old time’s sake. You just can’t stay away, can you, little brother.”

“Fuck you,” spits Clint, bent in half over his hand, gun kicked off and gleaming under one of the carts. His breathing is wet and… thick, strange, in between every word, and it fills Peter with more unease. “Let the kid go. This hasn’t been Kingpin’s territory in years, he don’t even got an outpost in New York any more.” 

“What, Stark’s newest kid?” scoffs the man. Peter feels small uptick in the sinking feeling flooding his whole body. Yeah, he’s a Stark. He’s Tony Stark’s newest kid.

The man sneers, “Nah, little brother, I know how to butter bread and eat it. You grab his arm, Charlie. You be good, kid, don’t get your brains blown.”

Peter licks his lips and nods, heart hammering, as the man to his left grabs his arm in a tight grip.

“Sweet one, ain’t he? Not like that Hellcat you got,” chuckles the man.

“Shut up, Barney, say the damn message and scram,” grits Clint. His breathing is strange, raspy, and Peter wonders if something else happened in that exchange of blows, something besides just his hand getting kicked.

“Oh, ain’t saying any words,” mocks the man- Barney. “Sending a message. Suppliers said you did the Ohio rounds and that dame of yours slipped into a speakeasy in Indiana to have a chat.”

“Fuck, Barney, if she did, ain’t any of my business, probably thirsty,” growls Clint. Peter’s nerves are going haywire as the men around him snort and shuffle their feet at this interruption.

“Yeah, I always worried you wouldn’t be man enough to make a skirt behave,” sneers Barney. “Neither here nor there because Indiana is the Kingpin’s, see? Not Stark’s. The whole world don’t bow down to the Big Apple, you hear me, little brother.”

“Never said it did,” grits Clint, still breathing weirdly, still hunched, and Peter definitely doesn’t like that. He spits and Peter stares at the red on the packed dirt of the fairground, visible in a slash of bright light from a nearby torch. “Your barkeep shoulda reported it was friendly. _Bought_ a drink, had a _dance_ , good for business, a dame like her flamin’ up a joint.”

“So you do make it some of your business,” notes Barney, his voice full of satisfaction. “It is some your business, what the dame does. Well, that’s nice, real swell, being _friendly_.” He spits the last word like it’s an insult, and then his eyes flick up to Peter’s and he grins nastily, “Hey, he’s real sweet, ain’t he, what a babyface. You bringing him out, showing him the monkeys?”

There’s a sound, to one side, arresting Peter’s attention. Two of the men are kicking Groot, who has curled up in a ball. One of them shoots Barney a glare and says, “Wrap up the reunion, Trickshot, bound to take some heat here and the native is getting restless.”

“Trickshot,” scoffs Clint, and Barney’s face darkens as he whips forward and punches Clint in the gut, causing the man to fold to his knees.

“You shut it, little brother,” instructs Barney, and then he steps back, shaking his head. “Change of plans. Kid’s real sweet, this jerk’d fight us the whole way, wiley enough to get away and know how to handle himself.”

“No,” wheezes Clint, lashing out at the man next to him, who falls, knee crumpled. A gun shoots the ground next to him, a sharp report, while Barney and two other men hiss, “Nix, dammit.”

“Too late,” sighs Barney, “Gotta split now. _Dammit_ , Blinker, the whole world heard that. Put him in the dust behind us,” he tells the men, and then he nods at Charlie, the man gripping Peter’s bicep. “Leave him enough time on his clock to share the message, but don’t matter to me if you give him extra.”

“Love you, too,” wheezes Clint, and then he grunts in a broken voice, gaspingin between the words, “Angel, you be... smart and... good. Be right... behind you.”

Barney and several of the men laugh as they pull Peter swiftly away, through the maze of carts. There’s the sound of grunting and flesh impacting on flesh, a short cry in Groot’s rough voice, a longer moan from Clint. Peter gasps to hear it, and strains to hear what Clint says, he’s saying something, and then there’s more flesh sounds, slaps or kicks or punches, Peter doesn’t know.

“Aww, that’s sweet, what Clint calls you,” teases Barney. “Angel, is it? Well, you be an angel for us, kid, nice and quiet, goal isn’t to hurt anyone we don’t hafta. Just sending a message, that’s all. Probably be ransomed back within the week, I know Fisk. Man moves fast.”

Peter is breathing shallowly, short pants that shake his frame, so he nods instead of answering the man, his nerves screaming with tension.

Charlie grips his arm tighter as another man jerks open the tailgate on a truck. He waits a second for men to clamber over the sides and then tosses Peter up into their hands. They shove Peter onto the truckbed and Charlie growls, “Stay down.” 

One of the men punches Peter in his shoulder, down into the truckbed and laughs as Peter grunts. “We’ll keep him down, if he don’t listen,” a voice says above Peter, cold and dispassionate.

Another man laughs and grinds his bootheels into Peter’s leg. “Nah, could use a soft footrest, it’s the smarter plan, Shorty.” Peter’s body is thumped with a bunch of bootheels, then, and the men chuckle and tease him about his fancy suit. Peter doesn’t care, all he can think about is Clint’s moan and the splat of blood on the packed dirt. He knows he should be scared, but he’s spent the last month learning not to be scared. He lives with the Butcher of New York and his Black Widow, his Wolf, and he’s heard Tony’s singsong voice, seen the crazy light in Tony’s eyes, and survived it. Bucky’s slapped him and Harley’s scared tears from him. This isn’t even his first kidnapping. 

He’s not scared, he realizes suddenly, because he’s _mad_.

 _Be smart_ , he tells himself, brain racing. There’s a lot of them, a lot of guns, which is why Clint took the hits, Peter decides. He’s no dummy. He’s no dummy, and neither is Peter. Peter has to stay alert for the right moment, like Phil is always saying. Leverage works both ways, Tony says. He’s no dummy, just like Clint. Clint’s gonna be fine, he was just waiting for the right moment, Peter decides, swallowing. No point in being scared. He’s a Stark, Starks don't get scared. Starks get _even_.


	2. Chapter 2

The mad lasts long enough for the too-long, too-short ride to be over, and then the tingling fear creeps back into his limbs, switches his breathing from hissing anger to shallow anticipation. They’re idiots, Peter thinks dazedly, as the truck pulls up to a curb and the men shift around him to jump out, leaving two men with their boots digging into his back and legs. One boot shifts to his head, pressing down almost gently. “Stay,” orders that same dispassionate voice. Peter can’t bring himself to reply verbally, choked with the realization that they’re still in New York, _Tony Stark’s_ New York, and that is a grave mistake, that’s the worst mistake, they’re _idiots_ , because Starks stick together and someone is going to find them. _Be right behind you_ , Clint had groaned, and it’s the truth, all Peter has to do is sit tight. New York belongs to Tony Stark and these men are _idiots_ for stopping inside the city limits.

The sound of traffic is loud, the honks and horns telling Peter nothing but that they’re still in the City. He doesn’t think they’ve crossed any bridges. There’s shouting suddenly, semi-recognizable words as the engine cuts out. “Vada via!” shouts one deep voice, followed by another, higher, more angry, “Non puoi parcheggiare qui il camion!” It’s Italian, it must be, thinks Peter, there was an Italian family that sat just in front of the orphans at Mass every Sunday and he still remembers the musical lilt of their voices. Little Italy, it has to be, realizes Peter as another voice shouts out in the same cadence and tone of annoyance. His brain races through his mental map of Manhattan. He’s in Little Italy, lower east Manhattan, across the Brooklyn Bridge, he’s- 

He’s a long way from home.

Peter breathes, and grabs for the anger, thinks of Clint bent double, thinks of the blood in the dirt, thinks of the bark-skinned youth curled on that same dirt. He breathes and grabs for the anger he needs, to think clearly. 

He’s not a long way from home, he reassures himself. Cairo, Egypt, is a long way from home. Sydney, Australia is a long way from home. Birnin Zana is a long way from home. Paris is a long way from home. He’s just a fast drive, he’s not far at all, he’s still in New York, and New York belongs to Tony. He’s fine. He’s not even all that far from Queens, if it comes to it. 

“All right, all right,” shouts Barney, irritated. “I get it, you goddamn wop, we can’t park it here, move it, Shelby, wherever he points, park it there. Shorty, get him up and out here, into the house.

The boots lift off of Peter in quick succession, to be replaced with a pair of rough hands lifting him up, first to his knees, and then to his feet. He’s pushed over the side of the truck and manages to land on his feet. Barney glowers down at him, moving in tight. “Keep being smart, kid,” he mutters. “Just ‘cause we ain’t got a barrel pressed against that head don’t mean a guy should try anything funny.”

Peter nods, rage choking off his voice. He looks over at the men standing around on the street. There’s so many, so _many_ men standing around. Peter’s face had been in the news, in the society section, from the Fourth of July picnic, plastered everywhere in this city, with Tony’s hands on his shoulders. This is _Little Italy_ , old mafia blood runs through most of those veins, and old mafia money. Tony’d introduced him to the Torrios and the Lucianos at that same picnic. They’re good families with some really bad connections, and all of those strings, in New York, run straight back to Tony, straight home. 

Peter turns around completely in a wide slow spin, deliberately. He makes eye contact with as many of the men on the dark street as he can, while Barney barks orders, making sure everyone who wants to get a good look can. These goons are _idiots_. They’re- how is _this_ Clint’s brother?

He scans the crowd and sees one man nod, then another, and then a third and a fourth shuffle their feet, standing together. Good God, these Chicago goons are _idiots_. He glances at the street light above him, and then at the brick building. He wonders if he has to make it clear to them he’s being taken against his will when Barney makes it clear enough for the entire neighborhood, ordering, “Shorty, you grab him tight, get him down in that basement. Don’t you fight him, kid,” he says, backhanding Peter unexpectedly.

They’re _on the street still,_ thinks Peter in a daze, letting the blow knock him around, the way the fellas taught him in the swimming pool, moving with the motion as best he can. He twists his body back to stand slowly, like the backhanding was nothing but rudeness and not in the least intimidating or painful. How is this idiot Clint’s _brother_? “I can see your eyes,” Barney tells him in a growl, “and I don’t like the look in ‘em, you keep ‘em down.”

Peter stares at the sidewalk and waits for Shorty to push him, which he does, thick meaty fist wrapping around Peter’s bicep and hauling him towards the side door. He can already see the man who’d nodded second fading back, fading back out of the crowd and starting to turn, like he’s got no interest in the show. 

_Idiots_ , thinks Peter, as he’s pushed into a dim interior. _Idiots._

  
~~~   
  


Hours later, he’s been tied to the chair he’s been put in. They’ve drawn the shades down on the windows, but every lamp is lit and Peter can’t help but feel that sitting him in front of the door with the window was dumb, too. Hard to say, but he tries to keep his shadow in profile against the shade as much as he can. _C’mon, Tony,_ he thinks restlessly. _C’mon, Harley, get here. I’m right here, come find me._

He does math in his head- how long for Clint to get to Steve from wherever he’d been wandering around, getting the lay of the circus. How long for Steve and Happy to get Clint and Pepper back to the mansion. How long to get in touch with Tony. Would the Families send people to the Mansion, only, or to the nightclubs, looking for Tony? In any direction, it’s been too long, by his math, and it makes him worry about Clint, about Groot, left laying on the ground. He pushes down the nerves, again, because they’ll get here when they get here. And they’ll be here soon. Peter has to be ready.

Shorty, it turns out, has a kid just about Peter’s age, and he’s brought Peter some bread and beer twice, now, holding it up to Peter’s mouth to eat it, yakking about how growing boys can eat their own weight. That’s leverage Peter has noted, leverage that goes one-way and isn’t much use, but it’s a string Peter can tug if he needs to, see what he can make happen.

Barney is trying to arrange train tickets but getting a private car is hard, thinks Peter snidely, when you only have so much dough and this is New York, city of a million lost souls. Maybe in Chicago the trains would shift people to other cars for the name Kingpin, but here in New York, that name is just a failed mobster Tony ran out on the rails years ago. He don’t even have an _outpost_ here, whatever that is. Chicago’s chump change don’t spend in New York, thinks Peter with satisfaction.

Barney folds, slapping his cards down with a grunt, and then saunters over. He glares down at Peter and says, “Well, you been real good, kid.”

Peter glares at the floor, because if he looks up, he’s going to say something, something he shouldn’t, right now, with his cheek still raw from the last backhanding.

“Yeah, except them eyes. Least you know not to open that mouth and talk back,” concedes Barney, and it seems like that’s going to be all he’s got to say, as he rocks back on his heels. But then he leans in and sneers, “Not like that brother of yours, kid’s gotta mouth writes him bad checks alla th’time. Heard him at a meet up with the Bosses, once, shee-it.” A nasty smile twitches across his lips as he lowers his voice to murmur, slow with speculation, “Heard as how Stark knows a trick or two to shut it up, though.”

Peter’s heart races, fear and anger both twining together up his spine, stiffening it so that he finds himself glaring up at Barney and hissing, “You mean how he tells him to shut up and Harley _listens_? Guess that would seem like a trick to a dummy hatchet man like you.” _Shit!_ Where the hell had that come from?

Barney’s face draws into the deep lines of a scowl and, as Peter anticipates, he backhands Peter again. Peter can’t compensate like he could on the street, move with the blow, and as he feels his lips split he thinks, _shit_. That’s definitely not going to make Tony happy. Harley is going to lose his damn mind again, and Peter’s not interested in apologizing to this idiot to help Harley calm down. No help for it now, but he really has to keep his lips shut, be quiet and good, like Clint ordered.

Less expected is the punch to Peter’s gut that follows, as if Barney was disappointed in Peter’s lack of reaction to the first blow. It makes him retch, and he struggles, trying not to sick up on himself.

“Kid’s got moxy,” says Blinker in appreciation as Peter gasps and tries to wipe the tears that rose from the stinging blow off on his jacket shoulder. He licks his lips and tastes copper. Tony is going to be _furious_.

“Yeah, too much moxy,” grunts Barney. Peter flinches as the man stands, which makes Barney chuckle a little.

“Eh, leave ‘em be,” says Shorty, throwing a dollar into the pile in the center of the table where most of the men are playing or watching poker. “You snapped at him, he snapped back, Trickshot. He was sitting just fine, quiet like you asked, ain’t even shot you any dirty looks.”

The other men grunt agreement and Peter watches Barney realize he’s outnumbered right now. The poker game has his men’s attention. They’re just mooks, Peter knows, just men with families and lives, who were pulled in for this job. He’s heard them talking about their shops and their other work, they’re not even full time mobsters. Peter has slowly worked up the theory that Barney’s going off-script, that he was just sent to share a message and wasn’t supposed to kidnap anybody. They’re not set up here, for a kidnapping, for one.

And none of these men seem like the kidnapping type of fella, or the kinda fella who lets his fists fly first. Not one of them even looked sideways at Shorty feeding Peter twice, or letting Peter up to use the jake. One of them had even snorted when Barney’d yelled at the first guy sent to get the tickets, clearly unimpressed with Barney’s leadership style.

This crew isn’t who Peter’d send to kidnap anybody. This is the crew he’d send to get him a sandwich, Peter thinks with disgust. His stomach trembles, and he pushes back any feeling but the rage, imagining Clint on the ground, the way his shadow had suddenly gotten small, in the light, as he curled around himself. Peter files all of his observations, building leverage like Phil said, watching them closely, keeping his shadow in profile, and wonders when Tony will get here.

~~~

The men have started sleeping in shifts, and Peter has to work hard to keep his eyes open, when he hears footsteps on the pavement outside the window. There’s only one or two, but they’re at wildly different distances and they’re soft, like someone is trying hard to muffle themselves. No one at the table, where three of the men and Barney are still playing poker, notice. Peter thinks about all the doors he’s seen to this basement apartment and sneers, because he can see four doors and the coal bin as well as all the windows, the _open_ windows. He ducks his head a little, careful to keep it in profile, but he has to hide the small smile that he knows is sliding across his face.

 _Daddy’s here,_ he thinks gleefully, trying not to giggle, _and boy are you gonna get it, now._

“Eyes closed, Angel,” hisses a soft voice from the window and he nods, broadly enough that his shadow on the shade shifts, before pretending to loll his head to one side, feigning sleep.

“By the door,” he hears a hiss, passed down from voice to voice until he can’t hear it. He imagines it circling the building, imagines the men on the other side catching it, passing it on, and feels so _safe_.

Tony’s here, he came, he brought enough men to take down the whole damn idiocy.

There’s a knock at the front door, sharp and sudden, and Peter hears one of the poker players stand with a grunt. 

Barney jeers mockingly from the table, “Aw, sweet thing fell asleep, ‘bout time.” 

The other man’s footfalls are heavy in Peter’s ears as he treads the path to the front door, opening it cautiously. Something happens, something violent, because the door slams against the wall and there’s a muffled sound of the air being forced out of a body.

“Hiya, brother,” Clint calls, _Clint_ , and Peter’s head would whip around in shock but he’s concentrating hard on keeping his eyes closed for that whisperer, that whisperer who knew his nickname and didn’t call him Stark or Peter. He startles, as the other doors also slam open, in fast succession.

There’s shouts, then, and the sound of screens ripping, bodies dropping the short distance to the concrete floor. Peter gives up all pretense of sleeping in favor of following the one order he’s been given, keeping his eyes shut tightly. 

“Angel,” says Bucky, close by, and Peter almost sobs in relief at the sound of that familiar voice except he’s a Stark, now, and _he trusted they would come for him,_ “you keep ‘em shut. No matter what you hear, you keep ‘em shut, you hear me?” His familiar hand reaches out to cup Peter’s chin and Peter can’t use his voice to say anything, can’t trust it to be calm and cool, so he nods, a little frantically.

“Here, give ‘im my tie,” snarls Harley, farther away. _Harley_ , thinks Peter, and for once there’s no exasperation mixed in the ache of the fondness. “Wrap it ‘round his eyes. Just for a bit, brother, not gonna take us long, get you outta here soon as Steve gets the go-head from Luciano.”

“Hello, boys,” says Tony, in that horrible sing-song voice that Peter remembers from his study, on the day he gave away his cufflinks. It’s _Tony_ , though, _Tony_ , thank God, tonight’s over, it’s all over, he’s _here_. Peter’s breathing goes a little ragged as he pushes back all the relief and tries to scramble for the mad he’s been using to hold himself upright. Tony continues, voice practically caroling, “Heard you had a message from my old pal. Checked in with him just now, he swore up and down you stuttered a bit in the delivery of it.”

There’s moans, and gasps, and meaty thunks, and then there’s the sensation of silk over Peter’s eyes. “Shh, Angel,” soothes Bucky lowly. Peter can feel his lower lip tremble just a bit as his nerves loosen, finally, from that tight tingle that’s been spread over him since the walk to the menagerie at the circus. “Just me, me and Harley’s tie.”

Clint’s voice is hard but steady as he says, “Dumber’n rocks, to follow my brother into this hole. What was ya thinking, Charlie?”

“D-dunno,” says the man, and Peter sneers, because these mooks know nothing, that’s been obvious from minute one, “p-please, Hawkeye, ‘s just a job. Nobody but Barney even touched the kid. Kid, you tell ‘em. Kid?”

Peter keeps his mouth shut, as tightly as the aching split will allow, as Bucky’s knife slices through the belts and ropes holding him to the chair. He keeps it deliberately shut, and hopes whoever’s watching catches the nuance. There’s footsteps then, neat and slow and loud, flashy, against the hard concrete floor. “Peter Stark,” breathes Tony, leaning in close enough that Peter can smell his favorite cologne, the stuff Tony wears for Natasha, when they’re headed out on the town. Fingertips trail down the pain on the right side of Peter’s face, over his split lip. Peter rubs the raw spots on his wrists until these, too, are lifted gently, the sleeves pushed back. “How’s the feet,” croons Tony, lowly, his voice cold but not uncaring.

Peter licks his lips reflexively, wincing as he’s reminded of the split through the lower one. “Fine, Mr. Stark,” he says evenly, just as low.

There’s a huff of air as Tony says, voice still low, but warmer now, “Anything I can’t see, Angel?”

“Punched me once, Tony,” admits Peter, trying not to sound anything but diffident, uncaring, unaffected. His voice sounds odd in his own ears, cold and dignified and steady. “Tried to roll with it, don’t think it did too much.”

“Fella telling me true, it was all Barney?” croons Tony, one finger trailing down the side of Peter’s face again, and Peter shivers.

“Got some bruises on my back from boot heels, when they had me down in the truck bed, but I swear, no way to prove they did that on purpose,” says Peter louder, and there’s a muffled chorus of protestations of innocence, quickly silenced by meaty thumps. “Shorty fed me, gave me some beer.”

“Which one of you is Shorty?” demands Clint. There’s a rustle of cloth and a grunt.

“This way,” growls Harley. “Up against the wall. Got us the return messenger boy, Boss?”

Tony drops his trailing fingers and then stands, abruptly enough that Peter can feel the motion stir the air. Those footsteps ring out again, loud and proud, as he strides to the center of the room. “Clint, you sit down, now, take a rest. Let us do the work needs doing. Close the doors and the windows, boys. Don’t want to disturb any bambinos sleepin’ peacefully. Promised Lucky I’d be quiet tonight.”

There’s a sound of movement then, fast and furious, metal against metal, wood scraping, everything slamming shut. When it’s over, Peter hears Bucky mutter into the eerie silence, “What’s taking him so long, Christ, the Boss is in high gear, gotta get Angel _out_.”

“Luciano’s long winded. Nix the nerves, Boss won’t start ‘til the door hits Angel’s backside,” mutters Natasha, to Peter’s shock. _Natasha._ He can just picture her, all dolled up for a night of dancing with Tony, her lips slashes of red against the pale paint of her face. “I got him balanced, Sarge, trust me to know my job.”

Bucky grunts. Peter breathes and rubs his raw wrists, stretches his ankles, preparing his body to move and move quickly when Bucky is ready for it.

“Heard you asking the kid for mercy,” sings out Tony, and Harley giggles. Peter’s skin crawls to hear the sound, here, where mirth has no place. “But he ain’t the one you should be directing your inquiries toward, tonight. Kid’s got a bleeding heart to go with that mouth you gave him. He’d let you waltz outta here, assume tit for tat, scare for scare. But-“ Peter holds his breath along with the men as Tony’s voice hardens a little, never losing the skin-crawling playfulness, “he ain’t my accountant. There’s promises made to him that you broke. You got greedy, boyos, greedier than Kingpin likes, and that’s your first mistake because maybe he coulda talked some and got you a gentler sentence. He ain’t interested, now, though, doozy of a mistake to get greedier than your Boss wants you, these days. He ain’t interested in paying any of the charges you’re racking up on your accounts. So gentlemen, let me make it clear exactly what promises are stacked against you, so you can see why your chips ain’t gonna be enough to cash you out.”

There’s silence, before Tony’s voice starts again, low and intense, as he prowls around the center of the room, restlessly, “Clint here, he promised the kid would touch a bear tonight. You see him touch a bear? No, didn’t think so.” Tony’s sigh is mocking and loud, his shoes click-click-clicking against the floor with every step as he continues, “Bucky swore up and down he’d never get slapped again, after his last one. But unless I mistake it, I see two handprints on that one cheek. _And_ one of ‘em for sure was wearing rings. Least one. Notice only two of you is wearing rings today, and the kid’s only defending one of the two that’s got rings. I notice little details like that, you know,” he says, and Peter wishes the tie would cover his _ears_ as well as his eyes because there is something hypnotic and sickening about that voice, that half-crazed condescending, mocking _voice_.

“Harley’s got some strong words said about his baby brother’s blood and how he wasn’t ever going to see it spilled again. Those’re as busted as the kid’s lip. That scratch across his cheek mighta been enough but the busted lip? Seals that coffin up tighter’n nails. And then we come to me.”

The footsteps stop, resting, and Peter can’t help but strain to hear the next words, even though he doesn’t _want_ to hear them, as Tony softly informs the gathered men, “I mighta made some promises about how he didn’t need to be scared anymore.”

“Kid wasn’t scared, sir,” replies Shorty in a very respectful, very reassuring tone from his place by the wall, startling Peter. A gun cocks loudly in the absolute silence but the man continues, “Couldn’t have been more proud of him if he was my own, the way he stayed mad and smart the whole time.”

There’s a chorus of eager agreement from the other men.

“Thank you,” says Tony, after a heartbeat. “You hear that, son? All these men so eager to grind you under their heels on the ride over, real proud of how you conducted yourself while they was doin’ it.”

There’s silence then, like the silence after a church bell’s final ring.

“But it ain’t any of us,” says Tony quietly, in a harsh voice at odds with the continued rhythmic cadence, “that you gotta worry about. Not even my Windowmaker, tonight, though she is sure put out to miss Cab’s show uptown. Because, gentlemen, Harley just had his check up,” and Peter winces as Harley’s giggles cut through the air again. “So the Doc’s in tonight, boys, and he’s had more’n a saucerful of that tiger milk he drinks. And he don’t _like_ it, gentlemen, when someone messes up all his hard work, and he worked some hard on Petey, getting him up to snuff for me.”

There’s the sound of the table being pushed a little, chairs knocked back, and several of the men whimper as a bag or _something_ is dropped onto it. Metal bits clang together softly, muffled and indistinct.

“Get him out,” growls a deep, unrecognizable voice, as Harley giggles again.

“C’mon, Angel,” mutters Bucky, sliding an arm under Peter’s elbow and guiding him up. “Ride’ll be here soon and this’ll be no place for angels momentarily.”

“Bye, brother. Don’t wait up,” laughs Harley. “Devil’s got some broken promises to collect payment on, tonight!”

“You said it, Hellcat,” chuckles Tony. “Wolf, make sure the Captain has Pepper check him over. Looks a little pale yet, for someone who was fed and got some beer.”

Bucky is guiding Peter through a mass of bodies, shifting him left and right through the crowd. There’s whimpers and moans and quiet pleading. Tony’s right, he’d let them all walk, he thinks frantically. He’s soft, he’s not cut out for this, he’d let them all walk, he’d- he’d turn them over to the police, tie them up outside with a list of their crimes pinned to them. But they’d walk, every last one of them, they’d walk if it was his show.

He doesn’t think any of them will be walking, soon, and that thought chills the anger out of him.

“Ah, shit,” swears Bucky. “He’s still caught at the corner. _Fuck_ Luciano.”

“Can I take the tie off?” asks Peter hesitantly. 

“What? Oh, yeah, Angel, go ahead. Nothing to see up here,” says Bucky absently.

Peter pushes the tie up to his forehead and slips it off, and then blinks at the same street, with much fewer men posted along it. The men talk between themselves, in Italian, and no one is looking at the door they just walked out of. Everyone is carefully looking elsewhere.

“Almost midnight, c’mon, Luciano, let ‘im through,” mutters Bucky and Peter blinks. 

“What happens at midnight?” asks Peter.

“What? Nothing,” says Bucky, glancing over at Peter, confused. “Nothing happens at midnight. It’s just late, that’s all.” He shrugs and goes back to glaring down the street. “This business could take the rest of it, Doc likes to play with his toys, and Harley’ll just egg him on and Tony’s so wound up I have no idea how we’ll untwist him before dawn. Gotta get you home, though, and tucked in after ya see Pepper. You really okay?” he asks, suddenly, twisting back to look at Peter.

Peter shrugs. “Yeah, I guess. I feel fine, Bucky, promise.” 

A moment passes, long and slow, between them, Bucky openly disbelieving him until Peter shifts closer to tell him, “I knew you were coming,” in a low voice. “I was just waiting.” He tries to convey a whole world of emotion with his eyes, hidden in those words.

“Good, Angel,” breathes Bucky, and there’s a look in his eyes that makes Peter’s heart beat faster. He’s pretty sure Bucky’s reading what he’s trying to tell the man, reading it and understanding it. “Good. That’ll help, when I tell the Boss. That’ll help.”

“Does it help _you_?” whispers Peter, daring. Maybe it’s the dark of the street or the surrealness of the entire adventure, but Bucky is the only one of the family who he’s _seen_ , and that feels so important, that he helps Bucky right now, that he can _see_ if he helps Bucky, watch the tension drain from him, watch him relax from high alert to confident control.

“Yeah, Angel,” Bucky tells him seriously. “It does.”

Peter nods, slowly, as a green car glides up. Happy is at the wheel, and Steve jumps out of the front seat. He leaves the door open behind him as he rushes up to them on the sidewalk.

“Peter!” he says urgently, like he’s trying not to shout but his emotions are running strong. Peter turns from Bucky to face him as Steve slides to a halt beside them. “Your face,” Steve mourns, putting out a hand to cup his left chin. “You hurt anywhere else? Worse?”

“Naw,” says Peter, and then, looking up at Steve, he feels something crack inside him. He can feel his hands start to shake and he swallows, hard. “Aw, we gotta- I gotta go, please,” he tells the man, his voice choking on the words.

“I gotcha,” says Steve, and Peter nods his head, eyes burning. Steve’s got him. They’re going home. Steve’s here, he’s safe, Steve came for him. “Bucky, you-” Bucky glares over at both of them and Peter feels a shiver over his skin. “You come home,” Steve finishes, slow and deliberate. “You come home, and bring them, too.”

“Yes, Cap’n,” agrees Bucky, turning, dismissing them both, before turning back and calling to Steve, who is opening the back car door for Peter after closing the front passenger door with a careful hand. “He needs Pepper to check him over, don’t you let him duck out of it.”

“Wouldn’t dream,” Steve tells him firmly, climbing into the car but not shutting the door, not yet. “I got him. See you at home.”

“See ya,” says Bucky, and then Steve shuts the door. Happy glides the car out onto the road.

Steve waits until they leave the crowded block, full of straight-faced men who are all just standing, _watching_. When they reach the first empty street, he turns to Peter, his eyes soft and compassionate and murmurs, “You okay, though, Angel? Peter?”

Peter looks up at Steve, horrified, as his chest starts to heave. He pitches forward towards the man, choking on tears and sobs, trying to push them back into the pit of his stomach. He can’t find the anger now, though, he can’t, he’s not angry. The only thing left is this choking, smothering fear, fear and relief. Steve came for him, Tony found him. He grips Harley’s tie tightly and burrows into Steve’s arms.

“Aww, Angel,” says Steve, gathering him up, kissing the top of his head. “You’re safe, now. We came for you. You knew we would, right?”

Peter nods frantically. He wasn’t scared, he _wasn’t_. He chokes out, “Wasn’t scared, was so mad, you seen Clint?”

“I did,” says Steve in a hard voice, hand floating to thread through Peter’s hair gently. “I did see Clint. Had us some scared for what condition you would be in, but Clint looked more mad than busted up, said he’d told you to be smart and good for us. Can see you did, smart Angel. Just took a few extra minutes to get ahold of Fisk, ask him whether this was sanctioned. Clint said he thought it was just Barney high on old grudges.”

“Y-yeah,” sighs Peter, still shaking, but already calmer, with Steve’s arms wrapped around him, safe and secure. “Y-yeah, I think so.”

“Kingpin was some pissed, said Tony could take care of the whole mess for him.” Steve… doesn’t sound upset, Peter notes.

“Buncha idiots,” agrees Peter, wiping his face on his coat sleeve roughly. “Didn’t even leave New York, Steve. Walked me out on that street, hit me right there, where anyone could see.”

“Yeah, we got word from the Families, sent a runner to the Mansion and another to each of Tony’s clubs, looking for him. Smart folks, the Families. Know how to put two and two together. Glad they’re working for us, instead of competin’.” Steve nods and Peter smiles a little, sniffling back all the snot that’s collected in his sinuses, because Steve’s approval of Tony’s shady underlings doesn’t _matter_ but Steve sure acts like it does. 

“Said they were roughing you up some,” Steve says, sounding suspicious, his voice hard again.

“Just Barney, really, and not much, couple of slaps and a punch,” says Peter, but then he shifts his shoulder, remembering the guy in the truck, and concedes, “Or two. Gonna have some bruises but that’s all, Steve, I swear.”

“And you’re okay?” Steve asks gently, brushing back the hair from Peter’s forehead.

“I’m a Stark,” Peter reminds him, searching for words for Steve the way he’d searched for words for Bucky, to tell him, make him understand. “We don’t- I knew you were coming because we stick together.”

Steve swallows then, and pulls Peter to him for a deep, long hug, that lasts for several minutes. Eventually, though, he releases Peter and says, “Hey, Angel, you are something else, you know that? What happened to that scared kid from that first day I met you?”

Peter thinks about it and smiles a little, and says, “Well, there was this hellcat and this wolf, see…”

Steve and Happy both chuckle, and Happy says, “You did the family proud today, kid, not losing your head. Hellcat woulda had to have been scraped off the floor, not to compare the two of you too much or anything. Night and day.”

“Dark and light. Angel and Devil,” agrees Peter, sighing. He can’t help but feel there would have been more glory in doing things Harley’s way, defiance and violence to meet violence. He thinks of how Hellcat would have handled everything, and then he swallows at how unfair it is that _Peter_ had to handle the kidnapping. This kind of thing clearly never happens to Harley. The whole situation is unfair, really. “I didn’t get to pet my bear,” he mutters quietly, but then remembers the blood on the ground and adds, “and Clint looked- his hand-” he swallows, thinking of Clint’s _hand_ , of how Clint needs it to practice, needs it to fire arrows, pull triggers.

“Doc already looked at Clint’s hand,” says Steve calmly. “He said it’s nothing but bruised, not even cracked. Clint saw the kick coming and threw the gun, good reflexes.”

Peter nods, trusting in this the same way he’d trusted they’d come for him. “Pepper?” he croaks a little while later.  
  
“Nowhere near what happened, she's fine. Probably up and fretting,” informs Steve. “Left her with a bunch of bodyguards in case this was something more. But Kingpin swears up and down it was meant to be a chat asking Natasha to call ahead and not… any of this.”

“Seemed to be bad blood between Clint and his brother,” agrees Peter, scowling.

“Yeah, well, let that be a lesson to you regarding your own brother,” teases Steve. “Always kiss and make up.”

Peter’s head spins a little, after that, and he lets it rest on Steve’s shoulder for the rest of the long ride home. Steve presses kisses on his head like he can’t help it, from time to time, his arms wrapped tight around Peter’s shoulder, making eye contact with Happy from time to time in the mirror.

When the car finally stops, Peter’s eyes have slid shut. They’re heavy and it takes a lot of effort to lift them to see where they are and what’s going on. Happy has parked them by the side door. He can see Pepper, rushing through the doorway, peering out at them from the dim light of the entryway. When he opens the door and smiles at her, she turns white and her lips move in a prayer. As he pushes himself out of the car, she flies to hold the car door, crying, “Peter! They found you!”

She gathers him into a hug that feels like every memory of family he ever held tight through the long lonely years in the State Home.

“I didn’t run,” he tells her, burying his face in her shoulder, heedless of any pain that might flare up. It’s so important that she know that, that she know he waited, he trusted them to come for him. It’s so important he can feel his breathing shatter again, after the calm of the car.

“I know, I know, Clint told me, I know,” she tells him, wrapping him in her arms, rocking him a little. Her hands slide up to pat at his hair, to slide through it, and he can feel her tilt her head to look at Steve, stepping out of the car to stand behind Peter. “You’re home, you’re okay. They found you.”

“I waited,” he mumbles against her shoulder. It’s important, it’s so important, he chokes the words past the lump in his throat. “I knew they would get me.”

“Come inside,” she says urgently, tugging at him, pulling him with her. “Come inside, let’s have a look at you, come inside, Peter. Happy, leave the car, you come, too, I want family with us. Steve, leave it, the men are patrolling, leave it, come inside, all of you.” She gathers them all up with stern and affectionate looks and then her smile softens as she looks at Peter and says, “So you waited, huh?”

“Yes,” he tells her, because he knows she’ll _understand_. “I knew they were coming.”

“Always,” agrees Steve, hands wrapping around his shoulders, guiding him further into the mansion, towards the back stairs to the family hall.

“Always,” agrees Peter firmly. “Starks stick together.”

“We do,” murmurs Pepper fondly, not letting go of his hand, tugging him beside her, close and snug as they climb. “Now come up the stairs and let’s get you settled in bed. Clint had all kinds of promises for your day tomorrow, as we were patching him up, you’ll want to be rested.”

Steve scoffs, “You didn’t _believe_ him, didja, Pep?”

“I believe the entire Devilside contingent is going to need some severe sitting on to stay put and rest up,” she responds pertly, smiling beautifically at Peter. “And I believe I’ll enlist Peter’s help in that.”

“Yes, ma’am,” says Peter eagerly, despite his aches and pains, despite his exhaustion.

Steve chuckles. “Lucky devils.”

Pepper raises one eyebrow at him as she drops his hand to open the door to the family hall. “Lucky Starks,” she murmurs, recapturing Peter’s hand and holding it tight for a moment before dropping it again and stating firmly, “Into the bath. Scoot.”

Peter looks across to Steve and Happy. Happy smiles broadly and says, “You heard the woman, kid. _Scoot_.”

Peter rolls his eyes but strides down the hallway to his room, Steve two steps behind him the whole way.


	3. Chapter 3

Steve moves to the tub automatically, fussing with the water while Peter sighs and rests on the stool a moment, slipping out of his shoes and then just resting there, watching Steve work. Everything feels odd, and strange, like it’s not really happening, like this whole awful night has just been a dream. Peter snorts. More like a nightmare.

“Peter?” calls Pepper from the bedroom and Peter does startle, then, because she’s not- she’s not going to come _in_ , is she? “Peter, I’m sending Happy in with pajamas. No arguing about them, I know what’s best. You’re going to have to learn how to calm him down on your own, but I can smooth things with a couple of tricks, if you let me.”

The bathroom door creaks open to admit Happy, a pair of black pajamas tossed over one arm and a harried look on his face. Peter looks up at him in confusion and mutters, “Calm who down? With pajamas?”

Steve and Happy both snort and Happy says bluntly, “The Boss,” while he lays the pajamas over a towel rack and turns to survey Peter. “He took the Doc, so it’s not likely to be as bad as that time the fella drew that gun on Pepper-” Steve snorts again and shakes his head in what looks like agreement to Peter’s bewildered eyes- “but that don’t mean he ain’t riled the wrong way. Between ‘em ‘Tasha and Hellcat’ll get him balanced, but she’s right about the pajamas, so don’t kick up a fuss.”

Peter wasn’t planning on kicking up a fuss. He was planning on taking a bath and going to bed, to sleep off this crummy night. Who cares what pajamas he wears? He scowls at the floor until Steve pads over to stand in front of him. 

Happy whistles and says, “I’m out, gonna check on the night watch. Keep the home fires burning for the wrecking crew.”

“Night, Happy,” says Steve slowly, deliberately. “Call me if you need me.”

“I won’t,” says Happy cheerfully enough. “Night, Angel. Good to have you back in one piece.”

Steve flinches and Peter says, with no little wonder in his voice, “Wasn’t going to let ‘em take pieces offa me, Captain.”

“No, I know, you’re real smart, Angel,” says Steve, in that same slow, deliberate, thick tone. His eyes make no effort to meet Peter’s wide and wondering gaze as his hands reach out and start unbuttoning Peter’s coat. Peter shifts, because he can get undressed on his own, and Steve says, lowly, “You gonna let me take care of you some? Was fairly worried there, for a bit, when Drax came to tell me Clint was at the nurses’s station being fussed at by the whole flock of birds and Pepper, too.”

“Worried?” asks Peter, and he’s not sure why he wants to hear it, maybe he’s vain, but he does. He wants to hear that Steve was worried about him. He shifts out of the coat and lets Steve drape it on the back of the chair, holding still as Steve’s hands pluck at his suspenders and drop them from his shoulders, and then begin the long process of addressing all of the buttons.

Steve’s eyes flick up and he quirks a smile at Peter. “Yeah, Angel,” he says huskily, fingers making fast work of the shirt buttons as he talks. “Wanted you here, safe, more than anything. Kept thinkin’ of all the things I should have taught you, for defending yourself. Clint said it was a numbers racket, a whole mess of mooks, so it wouldn’t’a helped you any, but I kept thinking of all those times I had you and didn’t teach you what I knew. Kept thinking I shouldn’t have wandered off, setting up our security for the whole family to come visit later. Shoulda stayed close by.” He lays the cufflinks carefully on the tray on the cabinet full of towels, and tugs the shirt off Peter’s body as slowly and carefully as he’d handled the coat, each gesture controlled and deliberate.

“Oh,” says Peter. He shakes his head, feeling slow and thick, and tells Steve, “I- when Barney hit me, I moved with the hits, you taught me that. I just- couldn’t move much, tied up,” he trails off. 

Steve’s lips quirk. “No, I expect you did your best.”

Peter colors, remembering, and when Steve makes an interrogative sound, he confesses in a whisper, “No, I- Steve, he was saying things about Harley, so I snapped back. Probably woulda just had the one hit, but I snapped back.” It feels strange to confess like this, good and bad at the same time, but he can’t raise his eyes up to Steve’s face. Something about this moment reminds him of writing lines for Pepper, of Steve threatening to crawl into the backseat and take care of both him and Harley if they were sassy on the ride home from the motorway. Something about admitting he did the wrong thing, the stupidest thing, feels right, here, in front of Steve.

Steve hums and dips his head, lifting Peter’s chin until his eyes lift, too. Steve looks down at him with serious, steady eyes. “Well, that _wasn’t_ smart, was it, Angel?” he says, with mild censure in his voice, but his eyes hold nothing but steady understanding.

Peter feels his lips tremble on protests and his eyes fill with tears again, but he shakes his head because Steve’s right, it wasn’t very smart. He’d thought that at the time, too. “No, sir,” he tells the man, miserably. “I did try, the rest of the time, the jerks even told Tony he should be proud of how I handled myself.” Steve’s lips twitch into a frown at Peter. Peter nods to show he’s not arguing, not really, and says, “But, yes, sir, that wasn’t smart, egging him on, snapping back when I was all tied up.”

“No, it wasn’t,” agrees Steve in a much more stern voice. “I’ll have to think on that a bit while you soak. Can’t take a long one, don’t want you up any longer than you need to be.” His fingers pluck at the buttons on the front of Peter’s pants and Peter’s body twitches forward, because he _knows_ those fingers, and his body for sure knows what it means when someone else unbuttons his pants, usually. Steve’s lips quirk in a grin and he teases Peter, “It’s too late for any of that, I’m putting you to bed to _sleep_ , Angel. We can take care of that tomorrow, if you still need it.”

“Steve,” whines Peter, blushing straight up to his roots so hard he almost has a headache. “You know I didn’t, I don’t-”

“Yeah, yeah,” chuckles Steve, pulling Peter upright to slide the pants and drawers down in one motion, kneeling as he drops with them. His fingers begin to loosen the first sock garter belt as he tells Peter, “I know what you don’t need tonight, and it’s _that_. Skim outta that undershirt, toss it on the pile, Angel.”

Peter’s naked in no time, and Steve stands, head tilted for a second, considering him with those serious eyes. The older man nods and then leans in, just a little, whispering huskily, “One kiss, Angel, just to seal it in my mind you’re home and safe, gimme that much?”

Peter dives forward eagerly and Steve smiles, bending his head. The kiss is sweet and strong and slow, and Peter’s head is spinning when Steve takes a step back and mutters, “Sweet Glory, Angel, you gotta stop learning so fast.”

“You were worried,” Peter pants. It’s a revelation, for some reason. Of course the man was worried, but it’s still a revelation because it’s Steve, and he was worried about Peter. It means something, something big and raw and terrifying and wonderful all at the same time.

“I was,” confirms Steve, cupping his face and pecking his lips with innocent, quick kisses. “And now I’m worried Pepper’s gonna bust in and take over, so get your butt into the tub.” He smacks Peter’s hip gently for emphasis, and Peter jumps, practically bounding over to the tub and clambering in with a few hisses.

“I will bust in,” calls Pepper from the other side of the door. “I’m trying terribly hard not to eavesdrop but I will bust in! You wash him well, Steve. Give him a quick check over for bruises I should know about.”

Peter looks up, horrified, at Steve, who grins back at him as he calls back, “He’s in the tub and I’ll give him a good scrub, see what I see.”

“Oh, good,” she says loudly, sounding satisfied. “I have a tray of nibbles sent up from the kitchen out here, Peter, so don’t take too long.”

As if in answer, Peter’s stomach growls loudly. Steve and Pepper both chuckle and Peter rolls his eyes. Steve narrows his eyes at all of the soap options in their bathroom and selects a soap with a soothing lavender scent. He gets to work with ewer and sponge, leaving no part of Peter’s body uninspected or unclean. In a shorter time than Peter would prefer- he could fall asleep in this tub, it’s so nice and warm and safe- he’s helping Peter out and toweling him down with familiar motions. Peter rolls his eyes, but allows it, and Steve nips at his unbruised cheek and the corner of his mouth with sweet, gentle kisses as he stands and finishes toweling Peter’s hair dry.

Steve presses a hand to the middle of Peter’s back and guides him back towards the towel bar where Happy hung the pajamas. They’re black silk, Peter can see, monogrammed in red and yellow with the Stark crest on the pocket, with red and yellow embroidery at every cuff and seam. They swamp him, he discovers, after pulling the pants up over his hips. Steve swats his hand away and tightens the drawstring, his fingers lingering under the waistband with a teasing smirk on his face as Peter makes faces back at him and shuffles his feet. Steve shushes him quietly when he begins to mutter, nodding at the cracked door, with Pepper on the other side. Peter nods back, enjoying the clandestine feeling of staying quiet as Steve leans in and kisses his lips gently, sliding the pajama top over Peter’s shoulders in a silky caress of fingers and fabric.

When Steve pulls back after several long moments, the buttons on the shirt are already fastened somehow. Peter leans forward just a bit, seeking more, because his lip hurts and his face aches, but he wants more comfort, more kisses, more proof that he was missed. Steve chuckles lowly and promises, “Tomorrow. You still need it, I’ll give it tomorrow, okay, Angel?”

Peter nods, sighing a little as he straightens. Steve’s lips are quirked into an amused grin as he says, “Coming out, Pep, got the list for you.”

“Oh, good,” she says, sounding very pleased. 

Steve pushes Peter in front of him and Peter resists just to feel Steve’s hands bossing him around a bit. Steve chuckles and admonishes, “Be good. You’re already got something coming to you for sassing your kidnapper when you were tied up.”

“Oh, Peter,” sighs Pepper as they enter the room, catching the last statement. Her eyes are rueful and amused as she says, “Tell me you _didn’t_.”

“But he did,” confirms Steve, before Peter can even get a word in his own defense. “It’s how he earned a second smack.”

“And a punch to my gut,” sighs Peter, because in for a penny, in for a pound. Pepper and Steve both snort at this announcement. As he settles next to Pepper on the couch, something drives him to continue, “My lip didn’t split until the second hit, you know.”

Pepper bursts into laughter and says, “Well, okay, we’ll work on how to talk to Tony about all that because, darling, digging your own grave isn’t the best way to soothe him.”

“Much more likely to make him bust back out in a whirl of brass knuckles and baseball bats,” agrees Steve on a chuckle. 

Peter chuckles back, high pitched and light, to match the feeling inside his chest. “I won’t,” he assures them. “I won’t say anything.”

“Well, all right,” drawls Pepper, her lips still twitching with a smile, “anything else to confess, about how you weren’t a perfect prisoner? Or should I employ tickle torture prior to rubbing in the liniment?”

“Tickle torture?” squeaks Peter, opening the cover on the food tray. There’s cheese and meat and berries, and he grabs greedily at all of it because he’s _starving_. When he looks up after he’s eaten enough to slow down a bit and remember he has an audience, Pepper and Steve are sharing a contented smile over his head. Pepper runs a hand through his hair.

“Well, anything else I should know about, son? I’ll use tickle torture if I have to,” she teases lightly.

Peter feels another chuckle hit the back of his throat, high pitched when it escapes around the cracker he’s trying to swallow as fast as he can to avoid choking.

“Giggles?” teases Steve incredulously. “You’ve been kidnapped and roughed up, and we’re sharing our concerns and you’re _giggling_ at us?”

“N-no, sir,” Peter assures him, or he tries to, anyway. He’s chuckling- it’s a _chuckle_ , not a _giggle-_ too hard, and a little cracker sprays from his mouth. He brushes it off while Pepper snorts and hands him a red ripe raspberry. 

“Eat, Peter,” she says fondly. “I think someone’s getting a little punch drunk sleepy.”

“Punch drunk,” snorts Peter, tossing the raspberry in his mouth and reaching for a few slices of apple. “Yeah. Ouch.”

“Where did they get you?” asks Pepper, sobering just a little. 

Peter shrugs and says, “Punched me in the stomach, but I looked in the bath, no bruises or anything, just sore.”  
  
“Punched you in the shoulder, too, on your back, here, Pep,” says Steve, his face fallen into serious lines again. He slides Tony’s pajama shirt down Peter’s back to expose the left shoulder blade and Pepper hisses, “Oh, Peter. Yes, that’s going to need liniment.”

“Liniment?” asks Peter. “What- isn’t that for horses?”

“Horses and sheep and nasty bruises,” recites Steve, passing him a piece of ham rolled around a sliver of cheese. “Here, take off the top. Nothing like that on the bottom that I could see, Pep, couple of small bruises dotted down-” his voice trails off in inquiry, eyebrow cocked at Peter.

Peter frowns angrily and takes a vicious bite of the meat and cheese, chewing on it and ignoring his aching jaw. After swallowing, he spits, “They laid me down in the truck and put their boots on me to keep me down. Couldn’t tell if some of them were _trying_ for damage or just, you know, it was bumpy.” He shrugs. “The one on my shoulder was the dummy punching me down into the truck bed,” he offers, hissing as Pepper shifts the pajama shirt up and lifts it over his head, keeping it buttoned. Her fingers ghost over the bruise and he shivers, because the touch is so gentle it’s almost not a touch.

“Well,” she sighs, shifting to grab a tightly-lidded glass jar off the table and popping the seal, “let’s spread this on thick.”

Peter wrinkles his nose at the smell, because it’s strong and disgusting. “Aww, no, please, Pepper,” he whines, shifting closer to Steve. “That smells awful.”

“It’s good for ya, though,” says Steve sternly. “Hold still.”

“No, please, Pepper,” tries Peter, shifting again to face her, trying to put the bruise out of reach, his stomach churning from the smell. He pleads, “It’s awful, please, Pepper, I’ll heal up without it just fine.”

Pepper shakes her head at him, eyes compassionate, and says, just as firmly as Steve, “No, Peter. This will help speed that healing along. I know it doesn’t smell the best, but it _is_ what’s best for you right now.”

“I don’t want it,” protests Peter, feeling a lump rise in his throat. He’s had a rough night, he thinks, his heart rate speeding up. Why can’t they just leave well enough alone? 

“I hear ya, kid,” says Steve lowly. “It’s not the nicest experience. The scent’ll fade fast, though, and it’ll help.”

Peter shakes his head and Steve says, “C’mon, Angel. Don’t make us wrestle you.”

Peter imagines it for a flash second, thinking of how awful that would be, to come home bruised and be wrestled into taking his medicine. He flushes and shakes his head, mumbling, “I won’t, but Pepper-” closing his lips tightly when her name comes out as a complete whine.

“Mm,” she hums back, tilting her head. She puts a finger to her lips, tapping there a second and then says, “up on the bed, Angel. We’ll work quick, but I think you’re coming to the end of your day.”

Steve pushes and hauls him up to his feet, steadying Peter when he stumbles a little, and then guides Peter over to the bed with heavy hands. Peter presses back, just a little, just enough so that Steve has to manhandle him, although the man is careful not to touch any of the bigger areas of bruising. “C’mon, Angel,” he murmurs. “You’re all tuckered out.”

“‘M not a kid,” spits Peter angrily, as they reach the bed and Steve draws back the covers for him. 

“No, but even Bucky gets tuckered out sometimes, needs to be put to bed,” Steve responds reasonably. Peter glowers at the pillow and Steve pats his hip, continuing, “Don’t want to have to convince you to listen to reason, Angel, not after the night you just had, so crawl up.”

Peter flushes, thinking of all the things Steve could mean by that, thinking of his hand, patting on Peter’s hip. He’s so tired, he doesn’t want anything but the bed, so he has no idea why he’s being mulish about getting into it. Pepper comes over, with that awful smelling jar, and he scrambles into the bed, burying his face in the pillows and mumbling, “No, I don’t want that stuff. Just let me have the covers, Steve.”

“Be good, Angel,” instructs Steve, sitting on the bed next to Peter’s legs, holding the covers back and pressing one hand into the small of Peter’s back. 

Pepper makes a humming noise and tells Peter, “I’ll get your face last, sweetheart.”

“Not doing my face,” Peter protests into the pillow. It’s so muffled they probably can’t hear him, he thinks muzzily, and he wants to scrub his face against the pillow but his cheek and temple really hurt, like, _really_ , it’s awful. This whole crummy night has been awful and now he has to smell like a ditch full of rotten herbs and-

Pepper’s fingers grace over the bruise, trailing fire, and he yelps, shocked. Steve’s hand presses into the small of his back harder as Peter thrashes a little, trying to buck their hands off. “No,” yelps Peter. “I don’t- ow- Pepper- it hurts,” he hisses, trying to lift up only to be pushed firmly back down again, Pepper’s gentle hands spreading the foul-smelling stuff everywhere.

“It does sting a little,” she soothes. “It does. But it’s going to help.”

“It’s not!” Peter complains loudly. “It’s not helping, it hurts, please, Pep, stop already!”

“You stop,” commands Steve calmly. “You’re kicking up a big fuss over nothing. Let the lady work.”

“Ste-eve,” whines Peter, his throat choking up, tears rushing to his eyes. “No, please.”

“Yes,” corrects the other man firmly, patting Peter’s hip in a warning way. “Let the lady work. You don’t want this night getting any worse, now that you’re safe at home.”

Peter breathes out a sob into the pillow, just one, before biting his lip to prevent more and then yelping as his teeth graze the split that he keeps forgetting about. “Ow! Ow!’ he yelps, pushing back from the pillow and lifting his hand up to his mouth. He pulls it back and stares at the drop of blood as Pepper huffs a sigh and coats her fingers again, this time sliding the ointment over other bruises on Peter’s back. He stares at the blood and feels Steve’s hand shift off of his back to reveal more small boot-heel bruises for Pepper. Abruptly, the mad is back, only his throat is closed and there’s tears in his eyes already, and it’s muddier, more unreliable.

“God _damnit,_ ” he mutters angrily, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth. This whole day can just-

Pepper swats him firmly on the butt, and scolds, “Peter!” in a shocked tone of voice. 

He gasps, shocked at himself, too, and then burrows forward into the pillows and the bed, feet kicking a little as he scrambles to just get _away_ from everything for a minute.

“Shh,” soothes Steve, sliding up on the bed to lay beside him, rubbing his unbruised shoulder gently. Peter shakes his head, which rubs his raw cheek against his arm, making pain light up along the cheekbone and another whimper escape his lips. “Okay, Angel,” says Steve, low and calm and steady. “You’re half outta your mind with scared and tired, you’ve had too much today. Pepper’s gonna finish up and we’ll talk about all that later, you and me.”

“‘M _bleeding_ again,” sobs Peter, trying to explain. “M’lip, ‘s _bleeding_ again.”

Pepper blows out a breath and says, clearly struggling for the calm that Steve seems to possess in abundance, “Well, lift your head, let me look, Peter.” When he scrubs his uninjured cheek on his arm, she huffs, “Stop bleeding on the pillows, Angel. Steve, can you lend me your handkerchief?”

Steve shifts and Peter lifts his head, trying to sniffle back tears. 

“I swear, I thought nothing was worse than the Hellcat,” mutters Pepper, her eyes narrowing on Peter’s face as she dabs at his lip with the handkerchief. “All this fuss over a few drops of blood and some liniment.” Peter flushes and tightens his jaw, because put like that… well, it’s not flattering. The swat on his butt burns a little, reminding him that he’d done the one thing Pepper asks her men _not_ to do.

“He’s not worse than Hellcat,” says Steve defensively. “He’s just… different. Hellcat’d be hissing and clawing, have to have Bucky in here.”

“Harley doesn’t mind a little liniment when he knows it’ll help,” says Pepper pertly, frowning at Peter. Peter shrinks a little, and she nods in satisfaction. “Are you done, then?” she says severely.

Peter nods quickly. He’s done.

“I mean it,” she says firmly. “It won’t take me a minute to finish up and you are going to lie there, quietly, while I do it, do I make myself clear?”

Peter nods again and then croaks, “Yes, ma’am.”

It seems to mollify her, because she nods again and her fingers pore over his back, finding every soft ache and lighting it on fire with the salve. Without asking further permission, she slides his pajama bottoms down and chases the trail of bruises down his thighs and calves while he gasps and buries his face in his arm as much as possible, another blush flaming up his neck and face

“All right, I think that’s done it, except the face,” she announces. “Sit up, Angel. Hand him his shirt, Steve.”

Peter nods to show he’s willing and slips the pants back up over his hips awkwardly, sitting up cross legged and mumbling, tears leaking, “‘m sorry, Pepper, I _am_.”

“Yes,” she says. “You do look sorry. Sorry and tired and worn through and roughed up. Let me help you so you can get to sleep, please, Peter.”

He nods miserably as Steve slips the shirt over his head. He shoves his arms into the sleeves as fast as he can, as her fingers touch his jawbone delicately and raise his chin up. “Hold still, love,” she tells him, and the return of affection to her voice has his throat closing again, his eyes welling with tears. “Close your eyes. It’ll all be over soon.”

He holds still, although he can’t prevent the faces he makes as the scent hits his nostrils. When she’s done, and his face feels on fire, he opens his watering eyes to see her wiping her hands on Steve’s bloodied handkerchief and smiling down at him wryly. “There. Don’t you ever sass me about liniment again, Peter Stark. You can too hold still and let me rub it on you, and you _will_.”

He nods, looking up at her miserably.

She leans in and kisses his head. “All right, I see you, penitent Angel. We can talk about your choice of angry words when you’re mad at me some other time.”

Peter doesn’t know what to say so he nods again, and Steve presses a kiss to the side of his head. “All right, Angel,” declares Steve. “No idea when they’ll be getting home, but you’ll want some sleep under your belt before you have to deal with the Boss in a tizzy of worry over you. Get some shut eye.”

“You’ll stay with him, Captain?” asks Pepper softly, standing to press the jar lid sealed again. 

“I will,” says Steve.

Peter squirms around while Steve levers himself off of the bed, and watches Pepper cover the food and straighten things for a moment before heading to their shared door. “Pepper?” he calls, in a croak.

“Yes, Peter?” she says, half-turning back to him, eyes lighting up with concern again.

“Thank you. I’m sorry,” croaks Peter, gesturing vaguely.

“You’ve had a rough day,” she tells him, her voice low and so full of love it makes Peter’s heart ache, “and so have we all. Get some rest, son. I’m so glad you’re home.”

Peter nods back at her and then looks up at Steve, who has moved to stand beside the bed. Steve nods back at him and flips the covers up over Peter. He walks to the gas switch on the wall and turns the lights down until the room is full of shadows, with the barest of flickers in the globes to illuminate pathways between the furniture. He sits on the end of the bed, kicking off his shoes and resting his long legs alongside Peter’s body, one arm wrapping around Peter’s feet and patting Peter’s shin. “Go to sleep, Angel,” he says huskily. “I gotcha.”

“Home,” agrees Peter, shifting his unbruised cheek against the crisp linen pillows. “Thanks, Cap’n,” he breathes.

“Shhh,” says Steve. “Just sleep, Angel.”


	4. Chapter 4

The door creaks open, waking Peter, and Steve snorts, clearly coming awake from a doze, as well. “Who izzit?” he demands.

“Harley,” says a rough whisper. “Just wanted to see ‘im, Bucky said I could check in b’fore, he said I was in with you tonight, but I gotta see ‘im.”

“Shh,” whispers Steve viciously, shifting on the bed. Peter shifts against the pillow a little, because he hurts everywhere and while he can tell they’re trying to be quiet, they’re doing a bad job of not bothering his sleep.

“He okay?” breathes Harley, standing nearby, now. “Shee-it, that looks awful,” he whispers.

“Worse than it really is, in this dark,” Steve whispers back. “He’ll look better in the morning light, promise. How’s Boss?”

“He’ll be over in a few. He’s, uh, ‘Tasha’s got him now, did my part on the car ride home, got him ready for her,” says Harley. 

If they’re going to talk, Peter’s going to have to wake up, he realizes. He grunts at them, to get them to shut their traps and let him sink back down.

“Oh, shit, shhhh, baby,” whispers Harley, shifting in place. Steve hisses, “Don’t touch, he’s bruised up,” and Peter grunts again, because _go away_ , he’s trying to sleep.

“Okay,” breathes Harley. “Well, okay, but you swear he’s good?”

“On my honor,” whispers Steve back to him. “ _You_ okay? Doc was in it, tonight.”

“‘M fine,” says Harley breezily. “You can come check for yourself, soon’s Boss gets what he needs from ‘Tasha.”

“Will do, Cat,” promises Steve. “Go on. Let him get some more rest.”

Harley’s footsteps fade to the door and then it closes, and there’s silence. Peter grunts and slides back down to sleep again.

~~~

The next time the door rattles, the lights also come up a bit and Peter groans, pulling a pillow over his face and then yelping as it touches the bruising there. Steve, sitting up and wide awake, pats his leg and says, “Wake up a little, Angel, Boss’s here.”

Peter rubs the eye that doesn’t ache and sits up in the bed slowly, pushing covers off of him until he’s upright as Tony nears the bed. He stares blearily up at Tony for a second, Tony looking down at him and then he blinks and says, “Tony?”

“Yeah, Angel?” asks Tony, his voice rough with tiredness and completely devoid of the sing-song cadence of the Butcher. It’s completely devoid of his own regular cant, as well, and any of the teasing Peter loves. It’s hollow and empty, and hearing it feels just as deadly wrong as the Butcher’s playful jeering.

“You came for me, you found me,” says Peter quietly, to that emptiness, his heart thumping in his chest.

Tony reaches out one careful hand and runs it down the side of Peter’s face. “Not quick enough,” he growls quietly, and there’s a sudden bank of angry embers in his eyes.

“You _came_ for me,” Peter breathes back at him, because that doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter that they hurt him, what matters is that _Tony came for him._ Steve slips off the bed and says, “Seeya soon enough, Angel. You’re in good hands now,” with one last pat to the covers before letting himself out of the room.

“Baby boy,” breathes Tony, a second after the door closes. “What all did they do to you?”

“Nothin’, Tony, I swear,” Peter tells him, trying to reassure him, pulling him down by his shirtfront onto the bed beside Peter. He can’t stop touching Tony, his hands running down the man’s arm, wrapping there, _clinging_. He rubs his uninjured face against Tony’s shoulder and enjoys the feel of the muscles, real and strong, as Tony shifts his arms to wrap around Peter and draw him in closer. “Barney smacked me around a little but I sassed him, Tony, the once. I swear the rest of it was just the ride over to the place, their boots on me to keep me down in the truck bed.”   
  
“Kingpin’s got a lot to answer for,” Tony says harshly. His grip is gentle, delicate, in contrast to the harsh violence of his tone, and Peter marvels at the contrast. This is his Tony, the hands that tease and soothe, but there’s echoes of the other one, the hard one who does things the papers print headlines about but never quite directly accuse. “Can’t believe how he runs his joint, lets his men get ideas like that. Never happen in my Empire. Won’t allow for it.”

Peter nods and says, “I know, Tony. I know, it was just Barney, I listened to ‘em all night. I think Barney was just mad at Clint, grabbing at things he thought would hurt Clint.”

“Yeah,” says Tony, tilting his head to one side, eyes bright and curious on Peter’s face. “We got that out of him. Still, Kingpin shoulda known his men.”

“Tony,” says Peter impatiently, “you _came_ for me.”

“‘Course I did,” says Tony, smile twitching his lips. “You’re mine,” he adds simply. 

“Yours,” agrees Peter, nodding. He smiles up at Tony and repeats, slower, more intently, “Yours.”

“Oh,” says Tony, his lips quirking up. Peter’s heart skips, because there’s teasing in that sighed word, teasing like _his_ Tony teases. “Is that how you react, then? Have a little scare, daddy comes to the rescue, now you think I got energy for that, too?”

Peter shakes his head because he doesn’t know what Tony’s talking about, he just wants- he wants Tony to understand how important it was, Tony coming to get him like that. “You found me,” he tells Tony softly, looking up and over at the other man. “I wasn’t scared, not even once-” a slight exaggeration, maybe, he concedes “-because I knew you would. I knew you’d come for me.”

“Damn idiots never even left my turf,” swears Tony, rolling his eyes, shaking Peter’s shoulder a little, a hand rising to finger the crest on the pocket, lips twitching with some inner thought as he traces along the gold and red design. “They didn’t make it all that hard on me. Was drinking at the Brimstone when the Families’ runner busted in, and twenty minutes later Doc and Harley showed up, Happy with Steve and Clint right behind ‘em.”

“Tony, what’d you do to them idiot mooks,” asks Peter, angrily, thinking of Clint, hunched over in the dirt. He presses a hand to Tony’s chest immediately and rushes to say, “No, wait, forget I asked, sorry.”

“I took care of it,” Tony tells him, simply, as if he understands the need for reassurance. “Well, Doc did most of the fancy work. But I got some of my own in. So did Hellcat, he was in fine form tonight after that tune-up Doc gave him earlier. Didn’t like being worried about you over a bunch of nonsense,” he informs Peter, shifting on the bed, fingers sliding down to stroke the pajama bottoms Peter’s wearing. He hooks a finger under the waistband and raises a brow at Peter, who nods, something strong and hot welling up inside him. “Good baby,” Tony says quietly, and slips the pajamas down, Peter helping to kick them off.

Peter’s breathing is shattered and shallow, as Tony’s strong arms lift him, and slide Peter over to straddle Tony’s lap. His fingers dig into Peter’s hips just a little, settling Peter more firmly in place. 

“You came for me,” Peter reminds him, still a little shocked, still a little awed, searching Tony’s face to see if he _understands_. It means something, something that makes him feel reckless and bold.

“Always,” Tony promises him forcefully, one hand rising up to cup Peter’s uninjured cheek. Peter presses his cheek into that hand as Tony repeats, “ _Always_ , Peter Stark.”

There’s a bright feeling in Peter’s chest, then, brighter than the hot heat spreading through his body from his stomach. “Always?” he asks, just to see if the other man will say it again. He wants to hear it.

“Peter Stark, I will always come for you, I will always find you, no matter what happens, no matter who tries to take you from me. You are mine, and I don’t give up what's mine,” Tony growls, his eyes hot and his hands a little restless, stroking eagerly against Peter’s skin. “I will _always_ find you, no matter what happens.”

“Oh,” sighs Peter, and then, as the hot heat spreads during the ferocity of those words and their rebounding effect on his body, he shifts forward, just a little, just a small hitch of his hips, and Tony grins at him. 

“Oh, you need something from me, something more than savin’ you, tonight?” teases Tony darkly. “Something more than getting you home, safe and sound, taking care of what needed to be done? I ain’t done _enough_ yet, baby boy?”

Peter licks his lip, and winces, and Tony’s eyes fasten on his face. “Oooh, that’s gonna be inconvenient, ain’t it?” he says to Peter, his voice dark and rich, his thumb sliding across Peter’s cheek, hand burying itself in Peter’s hair. “Split lip like that, can’t give you a kiss,” he tells Peter.

“You can,” Peter assures him. “You just- Steve was gentle. He got one. Want to give you one,” he adds, watching Tony’s eyes darken a little at the mention of Steve.

“Oh, you’re giving them out, then, free?” hisses Tony, and Peter recoils a little, shocked.

“N-no, Tony,” he says, confused.

“Did I say you were mine, just now?” asks Tony, his whisper intense.

Peter nods, a small, frightened gesture. “Then, _now,_ ” Tony tells him, “why don’t you give me what’s _mine_ , huh?”

Peter nods, eager, and leans in, to gently touch his lips to Tony’s. They’ve never kissed like this, gentle, with Peter hesitant to push harder for fear of busting open his lip. He lays several small pecks on Tony’s lips, covering them, as the man’s one hand slides back to cup his chin, his other hand fisting the pajama shirt by Peter’s hip.

“So sweet,” whispers Tony. “Yeah. Just like that, baby, give me what’s mine.”

“You saved me,” Peter has to whisper back, because it’s important, he’s not sure Tony understands yet, how important it is, but Peter’ll show him. He’ll find a way to show him. “You came for me.”

“I did, I’d do it again, too,” swears Tony, pressing their lips together a little more firmly. Peter smiles into the kiss, just a little, not enough to split his lip again. It aches, the pressure, but it’d ache more not to kiss Tony. “Ahh, baby boy,” sighs Tony, pulling back a little. “I don’t have it in me, right now, but I can take care of you, make sure you know you’re home. You want that?”

Peter nods. He wants whatever Tony has to give, whatever Tony can offer him. He wants- _everything_.

“Good Angel,” breathes Tony. “Love my shirt on you, keep it on. Can smell the liniment, Pepper slather that on you?”

“I have a bruise, on my shoulder, like my face,” Peter tells him, “and some little ones down my back where their bootheels- well, you know. She got ‘em all, but I would’a healed, Tony, can’t you tell her I don’t need it?”

Tony whistles and then laughs. “You wanna go up against that contender, champ, you do it all on your lonesome. Me and Harley been arguing our own cases for years and haven’t won against her once.”

“She _spanked_ me,” Peter tells him, outraged. “When I wouldn’t hold still.” Well, that’s not quite accurate, he thinks to himself, but it makes Tony’s eyes light up with humor, so he leaves it uncorrected.

“Deserved it, then,” Tony teases him, pecking his mouth gently with kisses. “Shouldn’t have fought her. Everyone thinks I’m the tough guy around here, but of the two of us, I wouldn’t want to meet her in an alley.”

Peter shifts a little, on Tony’s lap, and Tony smirks at him. “Good to be home, huh, baby?”

“Y-yes,” whispers Peter, his breath catching as Tony’s eyes capture his. He can feel his lips curve in a smile because it pulls insistently on the split in his lips. “Yes,” he repeats, just for Tony.

“Liniment and all?” teases Tony, his hand releasing Peter’s pajamas to trail swirls against the sensitive skin on Peter’s thigh, just under the shirt.

“Yes, Tony,” answers Peter, breathlessly.

“Yes, Tony,” mimics Tony, his smirk growing, hands a little more insistent where they cup on Peter’s cheek and Peter’s thigh. “Yes, _Daddy_ , you mean.”

“Y-yes,” says Peter, his hips hitching forward.

“Say it,” whispers Tony, his eyes bright on Peter’s face, searching.

“Y-yes, D-daddy,” says Peter, feeling the flush of shame rise up his cheeks. Tony’s fingers brush over the blush, his lips curving in a sinful smile.

“That’s right, that’s exactly what I want to hear, this morning. My good Angel, doing exactly what I want, saying thank you for that savin’, last night. Am I always going to come for you, baby boy?” asks Tony, his other hand slipping down to swirl against the skin on Peter’s other thigh.

Peter thrusts forward again, a helpless little movement and replies, “Yes, yes, you will,” feverishly.

“Why is that, Peter Stark?” grunts Tony, his dark eyes looking intently into Peter’s face. “Why will I always come for you, always save you, always find you, no matter what?”

“‘M yours,” breathes Peter, thrusting forward again, seeking.

“Yeah, baby, you are,” agrees Tony. “And I’m going to settle you down, settle you back down for sleep, gonna wrap you up and hold you safe, while we both catch some shut eye after this rotten night, you like that idea?”

“Please, T-tony,” begs Peter quietly, careful not to bite his lip where it’s torn. “ _Please_.”

“Yeah, beg me, baby, just like that,” whispers Tony, skimming his hands up Peter’s thighs to rest on either side of Peter’s dick, not touching, just resting there, ready. Peter moans a little, thrusting against, as Tony says, “Beg, baby, beg for what you want this morning.”

“Please, please, T-tony,” sobs Peter, shifting back and forth, trying to get the hands to graze against his dick.

They seal around his dick in an unexpected grab, and tug. “Oh, I do like that,” chuckles Tony, tugging on Peter’s dick gently, watching Peter shift frantically, breath shattering more and more with every tug. “Can’t do what I want, just yet, too tired, need a recharge, but I can take care of you, baby boy. Fuck up into my hand, just like that, I’ll tug on you, I know you like it, my hands on you. Whose are you, again?”

Peter shakes his head and whimpers, “Yours. Yours, Tony.”

“That’s right. You’re mine. You’re not _for_ other people, you’re _mine_ , Peter Stark,” he hisses. “In _my_ bed, you sleep, at _my_ table, you eat. I will always come for you, I will _always_ find you.”

“Yes, please, Tony,” sobs Peter, shaking a little with how good it feels, how the words burn him up from his center to his skin. “Always find me, _please_.”

“Always will,” Tony assures him, calm and collected while Peter shatters inside his hands, shatters and shatters, thrusting anxiously, seeking every tugging sensation, every rub of Tony’s skin against his.

Peter gasps, “Please, T-tony, kiss me, please, it’s okay, I can- I don’t mind, please-”

“Yeah, Hellcat never minds, neither,” chuckles Tony, and captures Peter’s mouth in a kiss that makes Peter squeal, because it _hurts_. Lord, it _hurts_ , but it’s Tony, too, Tony’s tongue licking inside, and devouring all of his groans and squeals and soft noises of desire, humming. There’s the bright taste of copper and Peter is pressing into the kiss, eager, chasing Tony’s tongue, ignoring the pain in his shoulder and his face because Tony’s fingers are wrapped around him and it’s making him _want_. He’s burning up, now, with _want_ and _need,_ like a fever.

Tony breaks the seal of their lips to look deeply into Peter’s eyes and hiss, “All right, baby boy. You give me what’s mine, I can feel ‘em drawing up already, getting ready. You give me it, you hear? Everything mine for me this morning, after last night, you give me everything mine.”

Peter nods and cries out a little, as Tony increases his pressure and pace. Tony increases it again, after a few short moments of Peter’s gasps and moans. Peter cries out softly, because it’s too much, so much, it’s so much, Tony’s hands, safe, safe at home. Tony presses his lips to Peter’s forehead, gentle, so gentle, making Peter jerk forward, and then back, and then whine as he spills into Tony’s hand. 

Tony kisses Peter’s forehead gently as Peter pants, shocked, trembling, straddled on the man’s lap. Tony pulls the pajama pants over and wipes off his hand, wipes Peter down, chuckling a little to himself about something Peter can’t even imagine. “You’re something else, you know that, Angel?” he asks fondly.

“Yours,” pants Peter. It bears repeating, now until forever.

“Yeah, kid, but we busted up that lip again,” chuckles Tony, dabbing at it with the pajama pants. He smiles up into Peter’s face with delight. “You didn’t even notice, did you, baby boy?”

“I did,” protests Peter breathlessly. “I didn’t _care_ ,” he declares.

“Needed me that bad, huh, Angel?” teases Tony, but Peter just nods eagerly back at him.  
  
“I didn’t _care_ ,” he repeats. “I _needed_ you. Needed that. Needed-” he trails off, uncertain.

“I got you,” says Tony, grabbing his hips in a tight grip and knocking their foreheads together. “I get it, Angel, I can guess. I will always- _always-_ come for you.”

“I wasn’t scared,” Peter whispers, eyes closed. “I knew you would.”

“You hoped,” corrects Tony, his voice a little stern, stern enough that Peter pulls back to look into his eyes. There’s affection there, as well as possessiveness. “You hoped I would come. But now-” he brushes his lips, gently, over Peter’s uninjured cheek, pecks at the corner of his mouth- “now you _know_.”

Peter nods, and feels tears gathering in his eyes, and nods again, a little frantically.

“Shhh, baby boy,” says Tony. “Time for bed. You’re wrung out and I _need_ it. Let me sleep.”

“Yes, Tony,” says Peter quickly, sliding from the man’s lap, pushing and pulling at covers as Tony stands slowly and starts slipping the suspenders down, kicks his pants off. He’s not wearing drawers, Peter notes, as Tony slides out of his shirt, standing there just in an undershirt. He taps Peter on the hip and growls, “Get in, stop staring, you can get a good look after a few hours of rest, if you’re still inclined.”

Peter blushes and crawls into the bed, twisting to open his arms for Tony to glide in. Tony snorts and crawls in, grabbing for the blankets to cover both of them and then pulling Peter to him in a tight grip.

“Didn’t think I’d lost you,” he mutters against Peter’s curls. “But didn’t like having you off where I couldn’t get to you.”

Peter nods, listening to the man’s slow and steady breathing. “Thank you, Tony,” he whispers, and the words are inadequate, entirely inadequate, but they’re all he has to give this man.

Tony taps Peter’s head with the heel of his hand. “None of that,” he mutters. “You’re mine. Just getting back what’s mine.”

“Yes, Tony,” agrees Peter.

Tony shifts one more time, and then sighs, long and content. Peter rests his unbruised chin on Tony’s chest and listens to the man breathe, in and out, in and out, wrapped safe at the very center of the Stark Empire.


	5. Chapter 5

“Awww, it don’t look better, it looks _worse,”_ intrudes Harley’s voice in Peter’s dream. The bed beside Peter dips heavily under his weight, and then immediately shivers as the man’s bounding energy has him shifting. Peter presses back against the solid bulk of Tony just a little in protest. He was _comfortable_ and _sleeping_. 

_Do something, Tony,_ he thinks resentfully, but Tony just grunts as Harley continues angrily, “Steve, you said it would look _better_.”

“I also said to let them sleep, I notice you didn’t choose to listen to _that_ statement,” sighs Steve, and Peter shifts against the pillow, squinting his eyes at the bright noon light peeking through the curtains. Squinting pulls at the bruises and hurts enough that he sucks in a breath.

“You ok, Angel?” asks Harley, sounding unexpectedly hesitant. He shifts his weight again and suddenly Peter can see his nervous face clearly. Before he can say anything reassuring in response, the expression flickers into a scowl of rage. “Damn, Boss, let’s go back and do it all again, look at Angel’s _face._ Can’t even kiss him, look at that lip!”

Peter can feel the chuckle before Tony lets it loose. “Harley,” Tony says reasonably, leaning forward to kiss the nape of Peter’s neck, “you forget the mess we left for the clean-up crew? Ain’t any of ‘em in any state to care about anything you’d want to do to ‘em.”

“Say, it does look a little worse today,” says Steve slowly, from the foot of the bed.

Peter thinks of how hot he’d been with need last night, how much he’d needed that kiss from Tony, and blushes. Both Harley and Steve begin smirking, the expressions sliding across their faces in slow synchronicity. Tony’s hand creeps over Peter’s hip to lay flat on his belly and pull Peter tight to him as Steve crosses to sit next to Harley on the bed. Harley begins chuckling and shaking his head as Steve says, “Oh, I see,” in a teasing tone that goes straight to Peter’s dick and makes it twitch. “Well, we did want you to settle the Boss.”

Harley hoots at that and leans in, close, half flopping over Steve to put his face in front of Peter’s, eyes sparkling with mirth. “Well, if you’re letting Tony rip up them lips to say thanks, I got in a few kicks myself, last night, could use a thank you, too, brother.” 

Tony reaches around Peter and pushes Harley’s head back a few inches. He growls, “Mine,” and Harley laughs, pushing forward against the hand. 

“Aw, c’mon, Boss, wasn’t just you that worried,” begs Harley, laughter lacing his voice. “Gave us all a fright.”

Peter squirms back against Tony, pleased that for once someone’s putting the brakes on Harley, and considers sticking out his tongue at Harley. It’s the kind of thing a brother would do, he decides, and in a flash he’s doing it, pulling a face and sticking out his tongue quickly at the other man. Steve shakes his head, his grin growing just a little bit wider.

“Oh!” hoots Harley. “Boss, you should- now that ain’t fair, Angel, showing off that sweet tongue just when you know a fella can’t do anything about it!”

Tony taps Harley’s head, pushing him back with one single finger. “Mine,” he growls again, hand dropping and sliding back under the covers to pull Peter’s hips back tightly to his crotch, rubbing there a second until Peter is made aware that neither one of them are wearing pants right now. Peter gasps and his eyes fly to Steve, who quirks an eyebrow and offers, “You want me to leave you alone with your boys, Boss? Seems like they’re heating up a bit.”

“Want you to keep that one busy,” grunts Tony, shifting behind Peter, pointing a finger at Harley. Harley grins at Peter and leans back into Steve, murmuring, “I’m game if you are, Stevie. Gonna be shy, all of a sudden?”

Steve chuckles and says, “Harley, you ever let anyone be shy when you’re in a mood?” He presses Harley down onto the bed next to Peter with one firm hand, smiling as Harley makes a startled noise.

Tony snorts, his hand sliding back under the covers, trailing up and under the shirt to tweak at Peter’s nipples softly, gently. “Never known Harley to let anyone be shy whether he’s in a mood or not. Why Harley, you nervous about letting me see you with your Captain?”

Harley blushes, just a little, and Peter’s fascinated, fidgeting just a bit as Tony’s clever fingers trace across his chest, back and forth, touching sensitive skin with gentle caresses. 

“Or did you think those games were a secret, Harley?” murmurs Tony, a grin in his voice that Peter sees draws a matching grin from Steve. “With all the talking you do, I did note that the only people telling me about you and your Captain were Steve and Bucky.” He leans forward and nibbles along Peter’s neck, his hand drifting a little lower, pulling Peter’s backside tight to his dick, again, and rubbing himself there.

Harley groans and glares up at Steve, muttering, “Can’t believe you’d say anything.”

“Be good or I’ll make you yowl it for him,” Steve teases, sliding out of his suspenders easily and nodding at Harley’s pants. “Open ‘em up. Boss’s busy and I got orders.”

Peter realizes he’s panting when Tony chuckles in his ear, “Breathe, baby. Can feel how you like the show.” His hand slides down to grip Peter’s dick in a firm grasp, tugging slightly.

Harley is grumbling but his fingers are flying, Peter notes. He’s not dressed for the full day, just his undershirt and pants that are too big for him- probably not his own, if Peter’s any judge of the cut and styles Pepper likes to put Harley in. Tony kisses the crook of Peter’s shoulder, teeth grazing the skin, as he murmurs, “All the way off, Harley. Want you good and distracted. Oil’s on the table, get it for Steve.”

“Aww, Tony,” whines Harley, and Peter’s shocked at how strongly his reluctant tone contrasts with his eager reach for the side table and the jar of oil there. He passes it quickly up to Steve, pulling a face that Peter doesn’t believe for one second, given the way the younger man’s dick is stiffening up.

Steve chuckles, teasing, as Harley proceeds to kick off his pants and glare up at him, “Your own fault. Coulda let the man wake up himself.”

“It’s almost one,” protests Harley, but his lips are twitching just the smallest amount, before his head sinks almost out of sight into the pillows beside Peter. “Him and Peter have been sleeping ‘round the clock!”

“Busy night,” chuckles Tony. “Needed a lie-in.” His hand is pulling on Peter, steady and slow, small jerky twitches that are both too much and far far too little. Peter concentrates on breathing and watching Harley be positioned by Steve.

“Two nights of busted sleep,” agrees Steve, pretending to be sober and solemn. Peter giggles a little, looking at him, kneeling between Harley’s bare bent knees, one hand resting on one of them and the other juggling the jar of oil. “Bound to wear a fella right out. Boss needed peace, Hellcat.”

“Needed _a_ piece, more like,” laughs Harley. “‘Bout to get it, too, if I know him.”

Tony chuckles, “Shows what you know. Peter’s birthday is in a few weeks, you ain’t hurrying me along any.”

“Little help, Boss,” asks Steve, frustrated by the lid to the oil. Peter stills as Tony squeezes him and mutters roughly, “Go on, baby, help the man out.”

Steve grins at Peter to take the jar and fumbles with the lid. The bodyguard has one hand pressing down on Harley’s chest, now, and Harley is looking up at him with something like the _oh Captain my Captain_ look he’d given in bed with Bucky and Steve, all those long weeks ago before church. Peter uncorks the bottle, squirming as Tony continues to stroke him. He offers it to Steve and Steve shakes his head, cupping his hand for Peter to pour some in. Peter has no idea how much to pour, so he tips the jar a little and then lifts it back, giving Steve a questioning glance.

“Gonna need more than _that_ ,” gasps Harley, rolling his eyes at Peter in clear impatience, “you trying to _split_ me, brother?”

“Little more generous,” Tony instructs Peter, his breath hot against Peter’s ear. “Your big brother’s got a point.”

Peter nods and looks up at Steve, hoping the other man will give him a sign or something this time. The man’s eyes are twinkling as he feigns innocence, his fingers wiggling a little as he calmly waits for Peter to pour more. Peter decides to about double the amount he’d dripped the last time and Tony and Harley both huff in impatience when he lifts the bottle up, causing him to dip it down immediately, hand stuttering a little. 

This time, Steve purses his lips and watches carefully. Peter reminds himself not to bite his lip as he keeps pouring until the man says, “Enough, I’d guess.”

Peter breathes out exaggeratedly. Harley laughs and says, “Well, okay, I’m about to be real distracted, brother, but Tony, you planning on this being educational, having him watch close or something?”

“Nope,” says Tony cheerfully, grabbing the bottle out of Peter’s hand. His other hand pushes Peter gently down into the bed on his back, mindful of the bruising on Peter’s shoulder. He watches Peter’s face carefully, before sliding over him to kneel between his legs. Peter looks up at him and shifts, slightly, his mind racing as every thought arrives and flees faster than he can process it. “He can catch as he can, same as the rest of us figured it all out.”

“Well, hopefully not the way I did,” laughs Steve ruefully, grabbing for a pillow and placing it- somewhere- under some part of Harley. His knees? Maybe? From where Peter is pressed, he can look up and see all of Tony and most of Steve, but his head is cradled in a pillow that makes it inconvenient to try to peer at Harley.

“We can definitely do better than mine,” agrees Harley, and then he gasps as Steve does- _something_ that Peter can’t see with Tony hovering just over him, smirk firmly in place.

Tony stills for a second, and Peter’s eyes fly to his face, to check in. There’s a look there, hidden, a small spark, and Peter stills with him, lips parted to breathe in the same low rhythm without conscious effort. _Oh_ , he thinks, awed by that small, private little spark. _Oh._ And then Tony tips forward, slowly, and nibbles at his lips so gently that Peter aches for more, his eyes fluttering shut. “Shhh,” soothes Tony. “Shhh, know you want it. Can feel you wanting me. But shhh, baby, Angel. Gonna give you what you want- what you need, but shhhh.”

“T-tony,” stutters Harley, sounding stunned. 

“Steve, get him busy,” orders Tony impatient, and there’s a groan from Harley, then, and a chuckle from Steve. 

“Sorry, boss, got a little distracted,” mutters Steve ruefully.

Tony breathes against Peter’s lips and asks him softly, “Why are you home, again, sweet thing? Why’d you wake up in this big bed?”

“Y-you,” stutters Peter, a little nervous, lifting his chin as Tony leans back a hair, chasing Tony’s lips against his. Tony presses a soft kiss to his lips and asks, “Is that so, baby boy? Is that so?”

“Y-yes,” stutters Peter. “You came for me,” he reminds Tony, as Tony feathers another round of soft kisses against his lips. “You came and got me,” he repeats. 

“That so?” asks Tony, his voice playfully confused. “Why’d I go and do that, Angel?” He nuzzles Peter’s nose with his own, letting some of his weight press down on Peter, rubbing just a little as their dicks slide, skin to skin, creating sharp sparks of friction and heat along Peter’s skin.

“‘M yours,” hisses Peter at him, tossing his head carefully, mindful of all his aches and pains. “Please, Tony, _yours_ ,” he repeats, his voice tight. Beside them, Harley and Steve have begun to do something rhythmic and grunting, but it’s like they’re holding their breaths, too, holding their breaths and waiting to hear what Tony does in response. Peter would open his eyes to look at Steve, to try to figure out what’s making that noise, but Tony is kissing his eyelids, now, soft and sweet and gentle, so gentle. 

“Mine,” agrees Tony in a low growl. “Mine to do whatever I want, yeah, baby?”

“What-whatever,” agrees Peter, his heart speeding up as he promises it.

Harley makes a little noise but then Steve grunts and Harley pants in response to whatever Steve is doing that makes the bed wiggle and shudder like that.

“Mm, like to hear that,” murmurs Tony quietly. “Tell me again, what can I do?”

Peter licks his lips, wincing even though he’s careful around the puffy split, and mumbles back, eyes fluttering open to look up into Tony’s dark gaze, “Whatever, Tony. Whatever you want, ‘m yours, you came for me. I knew you would,” he adds, to that small spark of - _whatever_ \- that’s still burning in Tony’s eyes. “I hoped you would,” he corrects quickly.

“Yeah, well, here, quick, while your brother is busy, while Steve’s taking care of him, let me take care of us, huh?” Tony turns his head and smirks at Harley when Harley moans. He asks Harley, “You busy enough yet? You got enough to handle, now?”

“Goddamn,” grunts Harley, and Peter’s surprised by the strain in his voice, surprised and worried as he continues, “Shuttup, Tony. Let me- it’s a lot, just-”

Tony laughs. “Fuck him hard, Captain. Woke me up from the best dream I’d had all week.”

Steve chuckles, but it’s choked, and when Peter glances over at him, his face is red and strained as his body shudders forward and back, fingers tight on Harley’s legs.

“Pretty picture,” breathes Tony, above Peter, and Peter’s eyes fly to Tony’s face, meeting his dark gaze and checking to make sure the spark is still there. Tony smirks down at him and says, “That’ll be you, soon enough, baby, can’t wait to see it. Love my boys when they’re having a good time. Let’s make sure you’re having a good time, huh, Angel?” he teases, and then he sits back on his knees, pouring out a line of oil along Peter’s dick. He teases it around Peter’s length with gentle strokes while Peter gasps and thrashes. Tony chuckles as he slides some oil up and down his own length and says, “It’s a damn shame I’m a patient man, sometimes. Bet I could win this race we ain’t having.”

Peter feels confused but Steve laughs and says, “Boss, anytime you care to try it, I’ll race you, but I suspect you’ll cheat.”

“Sounds like me,” agrees Tony, before he shifts again, arms sliding up to brace himself against Peter, dick sliding in the slick next to Peter’s. It’s a familiar position, now, and Peter struggles not to bite his lip, because it’s his favorite, the feel of Tony rutting against him, the rush of the weight of the other man, the friction against his skin, and how Tony rests his head against Peter’s forehead and ruts, and ruts, driving Peter frantic.

Tony holds still, smiling down at Peter, and then presses another of those too-soft kisses to Peter’s lip. “You ready, Angel? Ready for your good time, ready for me to take care of you?”

“Want to take care of _you_ ,” protests Peter, thrusting up, because he knows how much Tony likes it. “Want you to- want you to feel so good.”

Tony groans, eyes closing as he gives in and luxuriates in the feel of Peter thrusting up into him, and then looks down with dark, laughing eyes and presses another soft kiss to Peter’s lips. “Angel, you better believe I will,” he assures Peter, before his eyes darken and he thrusts against Peter. “You gonna tell me what you are, again?” he asks, a little breathlessly.

“Yours,” Peter promises, tossing his head a little harder than before, pulling at some of the bruises in his shoulder but not caring about it because he has to _do something_ when Tony, when he- it feels so good, so hot, the way Tony moves, the way his weight presses _against_ , and how his dick slides up _next to_.

“Go ahead, grab on if you need to,” huffs Tony, lips quirked in a smile. “I know you like to feel it.”

Harley moans at this statement, or at something else, and Steve grunts as Peter’s hands skitter and press between their bodies, wrapping around his length and Tony’s together. He arches his back and thrust up, because Tony _likes_ that, and because it feels impossibly good, the grip of his hands and the thrust of Tony’s hips, the way the bed is shaking, the quiet sound of whatever Steve is doing to Harley, although… although Peter can guess, he thinks. Everyone’s dropped enough hints, and maybe he hasn’t seen it, but he could guess. He thinks about that, thinks about oil and bodies, pressed together, and then looks up into Tony’s eyes again, and thinks about Tony pressing inside _him_. 

Tony’s eyes are wide and dark, the pupil blown with lust, but his lips are familiar and quirked into the smirk that Peter loves best. Peter lifts his head for an unsafe kiss- just a little too hard, too quick, that split could re-open at any moment, and Tony chuckles into it, his rhythm never faltering. “Gonna split it open, getting eager like that,” he warns Peter.

“Want you,” mutters Peter petulantly. “Don’t care.”

Steve and Harley both groan after that statement, and Harley’s hand flies up and over to grab onto Peter’s bicep. “Don’t,” Harley begs, “you’ll kill me, don’t, on your life, Angel, please, don’t, fuck, Stevie, fuck, you- don’t stop, please, Stevie.”

“Enough of that,” gasps Tony, shaking just a little above Peter, smiling when Peter looks to him, concerned, fingers tightening just a flinch over the both of them, wrapping them securely as Tony continues to thrust down. “You know what I want to hear, if you’re going to start talking, and it ain’t ‘Stevie,’ Hellcat.”

“Captain, then,” spits Harley, “Don’t you fucking stop, I’ll- Captain!”

The shaking from their side of the bed stops abruptly as Steve pants back at Harley, “Or you’ll what, Hellcat? Real interested in hearing it. Buried real deep in you right now, but I can pull out, too, if you’re gonna keep sassing back.” Harley makes a wordless whine, then, and there’s a smile in Steve’s voice as he orders bluntly, “Take a page from Angel’s book and do as you’re told, Hellcat. Tony said quiet. I’m saying take it the way I want it or not at all.”

Hellcat whines, then, and the shakes begin again, this time matching the rhythm of Tony’s thrusts, the bed moving in one singular motion. Harley’s grip on Peter’s bicep is tight, his hand hot, clenching slightly only to unclench. “F-fuck, Angel,” breathes Harley, but Peter’s concentration is on Tony, the look in Tony’s eyes, hot and possessive and with no trace of laughter anymore.

“Please, Tony,” begs Peter, lifting his head off of the pillow. “P-please.”

“Please what, baby boy?” grunts Tony. “Didn’t give you enough yet? Putting that whole crew who tried to grind you under their heels outta everyone’s misery not enough, came home, took care of you, slept beside you, kept you safe all morning, what more do you _need_ , baby boy?” 

There’s a look in his eyes, though, that softens the words, asks Peter to answer, asks Peter to tell him the truth, and Peter ignores the roughness to gasp out his reply, “I need you, Tony, I need- I want- please, Tony, please,” Peter begs, his voice going high as he feels his balls draw up, so close to that sweet release they are chasing together. 

“There’s my baby,” says Tony, delighted, thrusting faster, gasping with the effort. Harley groans and Steve grunts. “There you are, c’mon, Angel, c’mon, give me- give D- _damnit_ , give me, what I want,” he spits out. Peter nods understanding, the thrill of the near slip shaking through him, sparking small fires under his skin, pulling everything tight, so tight.

“Found you,” breathes Tony, his eyes wide, searching Peter’s face wildly. The words come harshly, grunted in between powerful thrusts into Peter’s eager, oil-drenched hands. “Made you mine. Always. Gonna. Make. You. Mine,” he grunts, and then Peter’s lost, a little, in his own head, as his world shakes apart. He misses anything Tony might say, or Steve, or Harley, in the hot feel of his own release spurting from him, sliding through his fingers. It’s followed by more hot wetness, as Tony reaches his release moments later.

After a long moment remembering how to breathe, Peter’s feeling quietly content and happy, especially when Tony remembers how Peter likes to be crushed underneath him, just a little. There’s nothing like it, the large man collapsed, panting, against his chest. It’s a little more uncomfortable today, with the bruise on his shoulder protesting the additional weight pressing him into the mattress, but Peter doesn’t mind, not really, in the same way he didn’t mind the kiss the night before.

“Love this, how I always win,” grunts Tony, and Steve laughs, shakily, “Maybe in speed, you took the race, Boss, but I think we all got what we needed, there.”

Harley whines, releasing Peter’s bicep, “ _Now_ can I talk?” and all three of the other men burst into breathless laughter.

~~~~

They lay in a sticky pile, Steve shifting to collapse next to Harley, shoving him against Peter, and Tony on top Peter, peppering his available skin with gentle kisses that are no less possessive than his earlier bed-shaking thrusts. Harley kisses Peter’s shoulder and chuckles in his ear, and repeats, over and over again, “So hot, that was- that was so hot, Tony. Haven’t spilled so fast in years, I bet.”

Peter runs his fingers gently through Tony’s hair, enjoying how the man stretches his neck to luxuriate in the touch. Eventually, Steve mutters, “Okay, gotta get the tray up here,” and grabs Harley, hauling the younger man over his own body and dropping him off the edge of the bed. Harley lands on his feet, chuckling, “Yes, sahib, whatcha need, sahib?”

“Scrubcloth,” says Steve shortly, his eyes twinkling, but Harley’s already moving to the bathroom like he guessed that response was coming. “Maids are gonna be hard put not to gossip about the state of these sheets this morning, Boss,” he sighs, and Tony chuckles, “Let ‘em. Karen’ll sort ‘em out, or Mrs. Friday will.”

Harley comes back with not just one, but two, damp cloths, passing one to Steve and placing the other in Tony’s outstretched hand. He heads back to the bathroom, calling, “Be out in a few, don’t do anything to Angel without me!”

“Do anything to Angel?” repeats Tony in confusion, sitting up slowly from his sprawl and swiping at his belly, crotch, and thighs with the cloth before rubbing Peter down briskly, too, and gesturing Peter to sit up. He hands the cloth to Steve without looking, and leans in to kiss Peter gently, again. “What in the world does he mean by that?”

“Oh, uh,” says Steve, standing to walk the cloths to the laundry basket. “Angel, you want to explain to Tony how you handled liniment last night? And about how you earned that second slap?”

Tony quirks an eyebrow at Peter, who flushes and shakes his head, leaning back against the brass headboard with a sigh. “Angel?” prompts Tony, sounding incredulous. “You said you got the knock-around from Pepper, what more do you need?”

“Well,” temporizes Peter, stalling for time, shifting against the pillows behind him. He tugs on Tony’s pajama shirt for a second, attempting to cover himself, and then gives in and grabs a pillow to set in front of him, looking up at Tony from under his lashes. “I mighta said- I mean, Steve, I was really upset, don’t you think-”

“I think the only time we’d ever hear that word outta anyone’s mouth is when they’re upset, Angel,” says Steve seriously, coming back to the bed and sitting by the foot on Harley’s side, smiling a little at the pillow before looking back up in Peter’s face seriously. “I think if we let up about people saying it when they’re upset, we’d hear it all the time, don’t you?”

Peter bites his lip, and then swears, “Ouch, shit, ouch,” and releases it. 

Tony cocks his head, a smile twitching his lips. “Man’s got a point, baby boy. What’d you say?”

Peter looks up at him, chin ducked, through his lashes, and tries, “The liniment _hurt_ , though, Tony, and then I bit my lip and it was bleeding. And I was tired, so stupid tired. Steve, just this once, don’t you think- I am sorry, I said I was sorry right off the bat-”

“Now wait, because he said he got a spanking,” Tony tells Steve.

“One smack ain’t a spanking,” chuckles Steve. “Although him saying it that way does cement the idea that our Angel’s been so good his whole life that he hasn’t needed much in the way of physical correction.”

Peter blushes as Tony laughs incredulously, “Oh, my. Oh, my my my. Oh, Angel. What’d you say, Angel?”

“Just said, you know,” Peter squirms and then looks up at both of them- Steve then Tony- and back down again, before muttering, “goddamnit.”

Tony crows with laughter and says, “Oh no, that sinful word on my sweet Angel’s lips, my ears are _burning_ , Captain.”

“I apologized,” protests Peter weakly. “I did, Tony, right away!”

“Lady Potts has only the one rule, Peter,” intones Tony, his eyes twinkling. “Only the one rule she asks us men to keep for her.”

“I already got smacked, and I cried,” Peter informs him hotly. “Oughta be enough, crying and gettin’ a bare-butt smack. _And_ my lip was bleeding, _and_ the liniment stung.”

“If Steve doesn’t think you had enough, then you ain’t had enough,” says Tony firmly, his eyes alight. Peter grumbles, rubbing his back against the pillows and trying to think of what to say next, what to _do_ next. 

“What’s this about what you did to earn a second slap?” Tony says slowly, frowning a little, the light dropping from his eyes as his lips twitch down and his hands flex.

“I told you last night,” says Peter, matching him slow for slow, trying to feel his way through the minefield of leftover emotion regarding the kidnapping. “I sassed him, that guy, Barney. He was talking about Harley, about how he thinks you know tricks to shut up Harley’s mouth and-”

“He said _what-_ ” hisses both Tony and Steve. Peter flinches, their reaction proving he hadn’t stepped carefully enough.

“He-he said,” starts Peter, swallowing cautiously, and repeating, “He said that Harley’s mouth writes bad checks and that he thought Tony knows ways to shut it up. I told him, yeah, you tell him to shut up and Harley listens to you, and then I said maybe he doesn’t know how that works because he’s a dumb hatchet man.” 

Tony and Steve’s faces are mirror images of shock, jaws dropped and eyes wide, for a split second before they both burst into laughter.

“Didja say it nice and loud, for the whole crew to hear,” laughs Steve, looking at Tony and bursting in laughter again, “Can you just- Tony, can you just-”

“Shut down that nasty speculation, right then, didn’t he, didn’t our Angel defend his brother’s honor?” chuckles Tony, smiling broadly at Peter in approval. 

Peter shifts back against the pillows and surveys them and then says, “So I don’t think I should get punished, then. Starks stick together. I was just defending Harley,” he argues stubbornly.

Steve sobers a little bit, reaching out and placing a heavy hand on Peter’s knee. He shakes it a little and says, “Defending Harley and defending Tony both. The stuff we get up to, in these rooms, is still illegal, Peter, and folks speculating about it, well. We got a lot of enemies, Peter Stark, looking for ways to take us down.”

“Oh,” says Peter in a small voice. “I didn’t, I didn’t even- I thought he meant _Bucky_.”

Tony chuckles at that, and says, “No, he sure didn’t, but you shut him up and shut him down good, baby boy. I’m real proud and you’re right. You won’t get a licking from a Stark for defending a Stark, you hear me? Real proud of you.”

“Why’s everybody hootin’ and hollerin’?” asks Harley as he wanders back into the room, looking freshly washed and shaved, towel draped around his waist. “Kept hearing my name and then y’all broke out laughin’,” he accuses, stalking over to the bed to glare at Peter. “Fastest wash up of my _life_ ,” he adds, glaring at all three of them as Tony and Steve snicker again.

Peter smiles back at him. “I was telling them how I defended your honor and they were laughing because you don’t have any, Harley.”

Harley’s jaw drops, and Steve and Tony _do_ hoot, then, with laughter, as Harley climbs on the bed with clear ill intent and straddles Peter’s outstretched legs, his feet in Tony’s lap. “Don’t think, little brother,” he hisses with playful sharpness, “that I can’t find a spot on you that ain’t bruised and give you one there.”

Peter smiles sunnily up at him and says, “I’d bite my lip, crying about it, and then you’d have to deal with Bucky over making me bloody my lip just when it was starting to heal up, _brother_.”

Tony and Steve hoot again, and Tony pushes Harley off Peter and into Steve, who wraps his arms around Harley and smiles as the younger man struggles to free himself.

“Angel,” says Tony admiringly, “You are the living end. Just when I think you’re a pair of pretty doe eyes, you remind me there’s a sharp brain racing away underneath that skull cap. Here, lean in, let me give those fragile lips of yours one last kiss before I head over to my room and the reports start rolling in.”

Peter leans forward, over the pillow, and accepts the feather-soft kiss Tony places there, his lips curving in a small smile. Tony raises a hand to his unbruised cheek, holding him close to whisper, a teasing smile quirking his lips, “But you ain’t getting out of whatever you earned with that _goddamnit_ , son.”

Peter knows his face falls comically by the way Tony chuckles and pecks his lips one more time before standing and stretching, unconcerned with his own nakedness in front of the other men in a way Peter envies. Tony leans over and smacks Harley’s head, hard, and when the man stops struggling, he mock-scolds, “Your brother stood up for you, defending you when he was strapped into a chair with belts and rope, took a slap and a punch to the gut for his defense, and you’re here threatening to bruise him over it? Get wise, Hellcat, and try some gratitude.”

“You did what?” Harley questions Peter, pulling away from Steve as Steve releases him easily. Tony ruffles his hair and pads over to the door that connects to Pepper’s bathroom, whistling lowly as he walks.

Peter looks at Steve and Steve nods encouragement. “The guy- Barney, whatever, he was saying as how your mouth writes bad checks and Tony must know ways of shutting it up, so I said, yeah, he tells you to stop and you stop, which maybe he didn’t know anything about because he’s just a dummy hatchet man.”

Harley’s face splits into a wide, warm smile and he says, “Brother, that’s about the nicest thing I’ve heard in a month. If I promise to give you one of them gentle kisses Tony was doing just now, wouldja let me?”

Peter shrugs and then nods permission, as Harley scoots forward and drops multiple kisses all over his lips, gentle and firm and chaste. “Defending my honor,” he cooes, teasing. “What a good wifey.”

“I _ain’t_ your _wife,”_ mutters Peter.

Steve chuckles and then says, “Well, everybody’s up now. Peter, I’ll let Pepper know she can come in with the liniment rub.”

“Oh, no,” moans Peter, pretending to collapse against the pillows, “No, tell her I died. Tell her I died, Steve, please, sir. I died in the night.”

“Harley, get dressed, go see where the tray’s at,” chuckles Steve. Harley, ever energetic, jumps off the bed and smiles down at Peter, enjoying his playacting, Peter is sure. “Peter, use the can and prepare yourself, because it’s happening. The lady always gets her way, in the end. Get used to it.”

“I don’t need liniment,” grumbles Peter, climbing up out of the pillows with a wince. He accepts Harley’s outstretched hand and allows himself to be pulled from the bed and folded gingerly into Harley’s arms. He buries the unbruised side of his face in Harley’s shoulder and begs, “You tell ‘er, Harley, you tell her I don’t need it, I’m healing just fine without it.”

“I ain’t telling Pepper anything like that, Angel,” protests Harley, laughing, patting Peter gently on the back. “You think I want to spend the rest of my afternoon doing lines for her for undermining authority or something? Nope. I am on my summer vacation, you won’t catch me saying anything that’ll get me stuck at that desk. You’re on your own, brother.”

“Harley, I defended you,” whines Peter, clinging, as the other man tries to wiggle away.

“Let him go, Peter,” laughs Steve, standing and straightening his own clothes. “Go use the can, get yourself ready.”

Peter buries his face in Harley’s shoulder and whimpers, half-laughing, “Please, Harley, please.”

“Don’t make me come over there,” warns Steve, the smile evident in his voice. 

“Steeeve,” whines Peter, except it comes out more laughter than whine, “nooo.”

“Peter,” teases Steve, “yes.”

“No!” laughs Peter, ducking behind Harley quickly, his hands on the other man’s waist, gripping tightly.

“Hey!” yelps Harley, “I am not a shield!”

“‘Specially not in nothing but that towel,” laughs Steve, striding closer. He peers at the younger men from a foot away and smiles broadly. “Here, Hellcat, gimme a kiss.”

“What?” asks Harley, followed immediately by, “What am I saying, _yes, sir_.” He tilts his face up to Steve’s, and Steve dips his head for a long, slow, lewd kiss, that has Peter spluttering. Steve’s eyes flutter open and his hand whips out, grabbing for the collar of the pajamas Peter is wearing. “Gotcha,” he says, shoving Harley roughly aside.

“Hey!” yelps Harley again, but there’s laughter in his voice and he quickly rights himself, the towel’s flapping revealing a long length of creamy thigh.

“Help!” yelps Peter, “Harley, help!”

“Harley, go get dressed, placing odds on how secure that towel’s been tucked is distractin’ me,” directs Steve sternly. Harley grins broadly, giving them a wide berth as he drifts over to the chest of drawers. “And you, troublemaker,” he scolds with a laugh, turning Peter by his hold on the pajamas, although he’s careful, Peter notes, not to put any pressure on the bruise on Peter’s shoulder blade, “March. Into the bathroom.”

Peter laughs and protests, but he’s forced along, anyway, all the way to the bathroom, where Steve smiles and shuts the door on him, and then holds it closed, calling, “Go on, Peter, I’m running for Pepper and you don’t want to be unready when she gets here.”

Peter is laughing so hard it’s a little difficult to get his breath, but he shouts back, “Tell her I died, please!”

He’s still smiling as he brushes his teeth, empties his tank, and gives himself a quick scrub up in the sink. Tony’s pajama shirt is a little messy, the lower edge smudged with oil and their combined spill, so Peter tosses it in the hamper and opens the door, stepping out into the room. 

“Oh, jeez,” he yelps, jumping back into the bathroom and hurriedly grabbing a towel. “Sorry, ma’am.”

“I assure you,” says the amused voice of Natasha, “I am not unfamiliar with the equipment.”

“And no need to apologize,” calls Clint. “Looked fine!”

“Goddamnit,” mutters Peter savagely, and then winces, looking at himself in the mirror, Steve’s words echoing in his head, _I think if we let up about people saying it when they’re upset, we’d hear it all the time, don’t you?_ He tightens his jaw and resolves to try harder. Harley’s got all kinds of rules for him, and Steve’s got a whole other set, but Pepper only asks this one thing. He can do better. He nods at himself and then exits the bathroom, trying to look calm, with the towel wrapped around his waist. He heads to the dresser first, heart hammering, and pulls out a pair of drawers and a pair of clean slacks and tells the two, “Be- be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”

Clint chuckles and says, “Awww, Angel’s shy, ‘Tasha.”

“He is,” she agrees, but her voice is warm with approval.

Peter slides the clothing on quickly, and then has to take the pants back down to button the suspenders on the back, because he can’t twist his shoulder without pain. “Be right out,” he calls to them, because he wants to see Clint, wants to see for himself that he’s okay, like Steve said the night before.

“Not going anywhere,” Clint reassures him firmly.

Peter slides the suspenders over his shoulders awkwardly, hissing as they rub against his bruise, but he needs them- the pants are far too loose-waisted to stay up without them. He thinks about it for a second and drops the one side, nods at himself in the mirror again, and races into the bedroom.

Natasha is standing beside the overstuffed blue armchair, and Clint is perched on it, slightly twisted as if his ribs hurt him. Peter rushes over to them, standing awkwardly for a moment, shifting his feet, before sitting on the edge of the table directly in front of Clint.

“Ahh, Angel,” mourns Clint in a soft voice, his bandaged hand coming up to trace the air beside Peter’s bruise, “Your _face_ , wiseguy.”

“My _face_ , what about your _hand,_ sir,” returns Peter, his voice breaking on the words. “Are you really okay? Steve said- Tony said- I heard you last night, but are you _really_ okay?”

“He will be well,” Natasha tells Peter firmly, sliding down to sit on the arm of the chair, tilting her head with a small smile at Peter. “Will you be well?”

“I’m already well,” says Peter stubbornly. “It’s just some bruises and a split lip, they didn’t kick me or nothing, Mr. Barton, is your hand okay, though?”

“It’s fine. I saw it coming, let go of the gun, went with the blow,” says Clint slowly, his wrapped fingers still outlining the edge of the bruise.

“Yeah, I did that with the first slap!” says Peter excitedly. “I remembered!”

“Good work, Angel,” says Clint wryly, but then he winces and says, “First slap? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, too, Barney’s got a lot to answer for.”

“I got many answers out of him last night,” purrs Natasha with a dark smile. Clint reaches up with his other hand and pats her knee awkwardly. He moves cautiously, like he’s probably covered in bruises, like every joint is aching, and Peter wants to ask, again, for reassurance that Clint’s _all right_ , though, _really_. 

“You been seen by Doc yet today?” asks Clint. 

“No need,” Peter answers him breezily, waving a hand in the air. “No _need_ , Clint, I promise, it’s just bruises, not even the kind you got, I promise. Nobody kicked me.” Well, not on purpose, that he could tell, he thinks, a little guiltily.

“I told you,” begins Natasha, but Clint’s voice cuts over hers rough with anger, “And I told you, it’s my brother, the kid woulda never had any kinda harm done if it weren’t for me and-”

“Peter?” calls Pepper from the other side of the room. 

Peter slides to the floor in front of Clint, shocking both Clint and Natasha, and whispers fiercely, “Tell her I’m not here. I don’t need liniment,” he adds, scowling up at Clint. He watches the confusion slide off Clint’s face, to be replaced with humor and delight, and scowls harder at the man. “You owe me,” he declares in a hissing whisper, gesturing at his split lip. Clint’s face cracks into a crooked smile and he takes a breath to respond.

Natasha’s lips curve and she calls, beating Clint to the punch, “Pepper, he says he is not here?” her voice is full of false confusion. Peter sticks his tongue out at her, which makes Clint burst into a surprised chuckle and cover his mouth with his unbandaged hand.

“What in the world?” asks Pepper, crossing the room to where they’re seated, Natasha perched on the arm of the chair, Clint sitting with his knees wide, and Peter with his legs tucked under the chair, huddled in between Clint’s legs. “Peter Stark,” she scolds. “What in the world?”

“I don’t need liniment,” he informs her stubbornly, glaring at what little is visible of the chair cushion in front of him. “I don’t want it, and I don’t need it, and that’s final.”

“‘Scuse me?” asks Bucky, and Peter’s eyes fly over to the door to Pepper’s bathroom, where Steve and Bucky are standing, clearly having followed her in. Peter feels his heart drop as Bucky stalks forward, Steve right behind him. “Try again?” prompts Bucky, crossing his arms and standing ramrod straight behind the couch.

“I don’t-” starts Peter, but then he hesitates, and shoots a look up at Pepper, standing there with her lips pursed and her head tilted. He modulates his tone, wary of Bucky’s glare, and finishes, “-think I need liniment today, thank you, Pepper. Ma’am.”

“Better,” concedes Bucky, and Peter glares at him, because he caught that lip twitch, he _did_ , before turning a pleading look up at Pepper. 

“Please, Pepper,” he tries, when the look doesn’t crumble her resolve at all. “I don’t- it’s just bruises.”

“Yeah, on your face,” points out Bucky. “And that one on your back looks nasty. Clint took his liniment rub just fine, you gonna sit there after he was kicked up some and say you won’t handle a little sting? Man’s got a busted rib, kid.”

“I do not,” says Clint with exasperation, when Peter’s eyes fly to his face, thinking, _Clint you liar!_ “Just some bad bruising, I swear, wiseguy. Nothing’s cracked or busted or broken, anywhere on me. You can check,” he offers, laughing, as Peter continues to frown up at him.

“But he did take his rub down without fuss, Peter Stark,” says Pepper severely, as she taps her foot on the ground. 

Peter rests his head on Clint’s knee and then looks up at the man. “You really did it without fussin’?” he asks the man softly.

“You bet I did,” says Clint firmly. “And I tell you what, you take a rubdown twice today without caterwauling to raise the rafters, we’ll see how we’re all feeling tomorrow, get you to that bear and fix that broken promise.”

“He can’t go out looking like that,” splutters Steve.

“We’ll jump that creek when we come to it,” Clint replies calmly. “First Angel has to sit up here and show me he can do what’s best for himself.”

Peter rolls his eyes, surprising himself with how much the motion _hurts_ , and levers himself up with his good arm to perch back on the end of the table. He glowers at Pepper and says, “Fine.”

Bucky clears his throat ominously.

Peter sighs, “Fine, thank you, ma’am, please torture me with your foul-smellin’ ichor that burns like a hot coal on stuff that already hurts. Ma’am,” he adds, as Clint and Natasha share a bemused look.

Pepper pauses a moment and then says, primly, “Thank you, Master Stark.” 

Peter glowers at her as she gestures for Steve to hand her the jar of liniment, muttering, “I swear, Steve, he’s worse than Harley.” She threads her way through the furniture to sit on the couch as Bucky snorts, “You only say that ‘cause I’m the one dealing with Harley.”

Pepper concedes the point with a tilt of her head, not quite a nod, and directs Peter, “Master Stark, if you please, turn away and let me have access to that back of yours?”

Peter glares at the carpet as he twists, and hisses at the first cool press of her fingers along the bruise. “It’s spread,” she murmurs, her voice cool and dispassionate. “Don’t you think, Steve?”

“Yeah, looks worse now than it did last night, for sure,” agrees Steve easily. Peter can hear the concern and the worry in his voice, the same tone he used to use to talk with Harley about Peter’s blisters, and he rolls his eyes again, wincing.

“I’m only doing this for the bear,” Peter warns them both, teeth gritted as she dips her fingers back into the jar and begins pressing them against the other spots on his back. The ointment burns like embers and he shifts a little, more uncomfortable with that sensation than he has been with the aches, pains, and pulls of the bruises.

“Never thought to try a bear bribe with Harley,” muses Bucky. “Wonder if that’d get me anywhere.”

“I’m game, next time you need it,” offers Clint with a smile. “I worked a couple of circuses, one of ‘em’s bound to be in the neighborhood.”

“Except in winter, right?” asks Peter curiously, turning when Pepper presses on his shoulder and tilting his face up for her, trying to keep his eye on Clint. “You said the circuses have winter grounds, right?”

“Kid, if you think I won’t need it next _week_ , you’re mistaken. Harley’s about due for his next scrape,” says Bucky, and everyone else in the room snorts and nods their heads.

Peter hisses as the smell of the liniment stings his eyes and fills his nose. “That’s awful, Pepper,” he complains.

“‘S good for you,” Steve says in exasperation. “Just let the lady work, you’re mostly done.”

“There’s a bear in it for you,” laughs Clint. “A big black fuzzy one.”

Peter closes his eyes and scrunches his nose and heaves a deep breath when she sits back and caps the pot. “Oh, _ew_ ,” he comments, “I smell like a ditch full of rotten herbs.”

Clint hoots and says, “Well, it fades, you can’t smell it on me now, can ya, wiseguy?”

Peter sniffs and mourns, “I can’t smell _anything_ right now, and I _was_ hungry.”

“First, let’s talk what we’re gonna do about the swearing,” says Steve sternly. “Since Pepper’s here and I’m here and Bucky’s here.”

“Bucky?” asks Peter, alarmed. He slides down off of the table, directly between Clint’s legs again, but this time, leaning back against the armchair. Clint’s hand reaches down to fiddle with the one suspender strap holding up Peter’s pants and Peter leans back further, finding comfort in those capable fingers and small touches in a deep way that surprises him. He continues his protest, “I don’t see why Bucky has to get involved- it was once, Pepper, and I said I was sorry, my lip was bleeding! I am sorry! You already hit me for it!”

“I swatted you,” corrects Pepper wryly, and she shares an unreadable look with Natasha, “let’s be clear about that right now.”

“Fine, I’ve been swatted,” emphasizes Peter. “I don’t- I am sorry, I am, Pepper, I was sorry last night!”

“What about these lines that do not hurt?” asks Natasha helpfully. “I would like to see how they are done, anyway.”

“What, writing _lines_?” says Peter, aghast. “But- but- it was just one word, and my lip was bleeding- Pepper, Steve-”

“Keep talking and you’ll find out why Bucky’s involved,” suggests Steve sternly. “You let us pick, now, sit still. Like you said, you said sorry, which means you know you deserve whatever you got coming to you.”

Peter closes his mouth and crosses his arms and doesn’t care if anyone would call his facial expression a pout, not even Harley. It was one word! One time!

Or. Well, okay. He did say it this afternoon, too. But not in front of Pepper!

“Lines,” considers Pepper. “Yes. After he’s fed, before supper. He can come into my parlor and do lines, and Natasha can supervise.”

Peter groans wordlessly and knocks his good temple against Clint’s thigh. Natasha reaches down to ruffle his hair and soothe him, “You can show me these lines that do not hurt, Peter, and I will be so impressed with you.”

“I won’t be,” snorts Bucky. “Heard about you earning yourself that punch to the gut you took last night, I’m real interested in having a chat with you about not being mouthy when you’re being kidnapped.”

Clint’s leg bounces and Peter says quickly, “But, Bucky, did you hear the whole story about that?”

“Just what Steve said this morning,” grunts Bucky.

Peter looks to Steve beseechingly and Steve chuckles, “Well, you won’t want to throttle him when you hear the whole round tale. Go ahead, Peter.”

“So, Barney said Harley had a mouth that was always writing him bad checks, on account of he met Harley at some point, some big fat cat meeting thing?” asks Peter. 

Bucky nods, and tilts his head, conceding, “Well, he for sure met Harley, that’s a pretty good description right there.” He and Clint share a grin of pride in their Devilside protege.

“And then he said he thought Tony had a way of shutting Harley up,” says Peter, carefully not looking up at Clint, now that he knows the meaning behind that statement. He doesn’t want to see what expression Clint is wearing. “And so I said to him, ‘yeah, the trick’s that he tells Harley to shut up and Harley just shuts up’ and then I said, ‘which maybe you don’t know about because you’re just a dummy hatchet man.’ and then he punched me. Well, first he slapped me again,” Peter recounts for honesty’s sake, but his voice is lost in all of the laughter around him. Clint wiggles his knees against Peter, shaking him from side to side, and says, “Smart Angel, knew it, been saying it, missed you, wiseguy, when we was out on tour!”

“Wish I coulda been there to see his _face_ ,” chuckles Bucky. “God, after last night, all that stuff he spouted, tryin’ to act like the big fat cat in that basement, Clint.”

Clint is still wheezing with chuckles, as he says, “Look, I didn’t pick him, he just came with the parents.”

“You got the family share of beauty and the brains,” Natasha informs him smugly. “And you left him nothing for himself. That much was obvious, last night.”

“Ahh, well,” drawls Bucky, scrubbing his eyes and grinning at Peter. “I’ll allow it, I guess. But you better heal up quick before I change my mind."

“I heal fast,” Peter assures him, and then he sniffs, “and that’s _without_ the liniment.”

Pepper rolls her eyes heavenward, but Clint and Steve snicker.

“Glad it’s no worse than a couple of bruises, right, wiseguy,” says Clint softly, into the silence that falls on the room. “Nothing we can’t handle, right, kid?”

“Nothing we can’t handle,” says Peter firmly, resting his head on Clint’s leg.

“Food,” reminds Steve. “Harley’s got the cart going to Pepper’s suite, we all missed lunch. Let’s go eat.”

“I’m in,” says Clint, nudging against Peter’s body with his booted foot. “Move, wiseguy, I could eat a whole cow right now.”

Peter scrambles up, assisted by Pepper, who holds out a hand and yanks on him. “How’s the smell?” she asks brightly and Peter narrows his eyes at her, shaking his head, to mutter, “Awful. Ma’am.”

She hums and tells him, as they walk in a group towards the connecting door, “Well, brace yourself, because until that bruise fades, you’re going to smell like a ditch full of rotten weeds twice a day.”

“Awww, Pepper,” Peter whines, and she taps his nose, frowning.

“You can come get your rubdown with me, kid,” offers Clint magnanimously, cautiously walking in a painful-looking hunch right beside Peter as if he can’t quite bear to let Peter be more than an arm's length away. Peter appreciates that sentiment- he’s not real keen on the idea of Clint being out of his eyesight just yet, either. “I’ll remind you about the bear.”

“Ooh, yes,” says Peter brightly. “My bear. What was her name?”

“Misha,” laughs Clint. “And we’ll figure it out, I promise, wiseguy. Just keep out of trouble until then, promise?”

“Do my best,” sighs Peter.

“You always do,” murmurs Natasha. “For us, you always do.”

“I’m a Stark,” agrees Peter.

“You sure are,” admires Clint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone was nervous, I'm fine, the family I took in is fine, and I'm hoping you'll enjoy the story enough to drop me a line and let me know you're fine, too. :)


	6. Chapter 6

Peter’s deep into the seventh short story of My Man Jeeves when Steve enters the library. Peter glances up and then sighs, wishing he could squirm back just a little bit deeper into Clint’s reassuring warmth. “Just a couple more minutes?” he asks, to forestall Steve telling him it’s time to head to Pepper’s parlor. “I’m almost done.”

“Running late as it is,” Steve tells him regretfully. Clint shifts beside Peter, elbowing him in the back, and Peter closes the book with a sigh and mutters at Clint, “Oh, like _you’d_ go skipping to go do lines.”

“Would if it was Lady Pepper asking me,” teases Clint, carefully stretching out his arms and legs from the light doze he’d been in for the last hour. “Lady can ask me anything, you seen the lips on her?”

“I will tell her you said so,” says Natasha, smiling faintly and marking her own place in her book. Clint swallows audibly and mutters, “Now, you know that ain’t fair, ‘Tasha.”

“I am not interested in fair,” Natasha informs him, before turning to Peter and saying, “I am, however, very interested in these lines, and how they work. Stand, Peter, and lead the way to Pepper’s parlor.”

Peter stands and sighs, leaving the book behind him with one last mournful glance. 

“I could just whup you, it’d be over faster,” offers Steve. Peter’s gaze flies up to Steve’s face, shocked. Steve smiles back at him, friendly and open.

“No _thank you_ , Cap’n,” says Peter quellingly. Steve chuckles as Peter passes by, and then falls into step at Peter’s right shoulder. They all keep pace with Clint, moving easily and slowly for all that they might be running late. 

“Yes, no thank you,” adds Natasha, the scowl evident in her voice. “I have seen enough whuppings and have never seen these lines.”

“Well, prepare to be bored,” Peter groans. “It’s the worst kind of boring.”

“But effective,” sighs Clint. “Always woulda chose the belt over the pen, never could get letters to settle down and behave.”

Peter considers this sentiment as he walks them all to witness his inky doom. He’s never been hit with a belt, and Harley does seem to bounce back from it with ease. However, he’s been slapped a few times, now, and slaps _hurt_. He’s not all that interested in finding out if belts hurt, too.

~~~

Pepper looks up from her desk and nods at the invasion, as if they’re exactly on time and exactly what she’d expected. She smiles a little as she points with her pen and invites, “Clint, do sit down, the red chair is probably best, Mr. Stark won’t mind just this once, I swear it. Happy, pillows for him, please.”

Happy rises from his own desk, nodding, and grabs a few cushions to help Clint get re-settled in the red chair. Peter half expects Clint to scoff, but instead he seems to take the help gratefully, and Peter feels a fist clench around his heart as Clint gingerly shifts this way and that to put the pillows in the best spots to support him. When he is done, Pepper rises and pours a cup of tea, bringing it to Clint with a soft expression on her face. “Phil will be here shortly,” she tells him, her voice as warm as her eyes. 

“Aww, no, Pep, you didn’t,” Clint says faintly, his cheeks coloring lightly. Natasha smiles broadly at Pepper over the back of Clint’s chair, running a hand through the injured man’s hair fondly. 

“I did,” Pepper corrects Clint firmly. “He expects to be included, and deserves to be.”

Natasha nods just as firmly, clearly approving, and Peter agrees. 

Pepper turns her gaze to Peter and his heart starts hammering as her gaze cools just a touch. “Peter, Harley’s desk, if you please. Your journal is there, already, and your lines waiting for you. I believe fifty should keep you occupied while we, who know how to keep our tongues civil, shall await Phil. Natasha, come, make your tea, I know you love to keep me guessing about your sugar and if you’ll want cream. Happy, Steve, do join us, unless you have other business?”

Peter trudges to Harley’s desk with a suddenly heavy heart. To be dismissed like that! Everyone else is served tea, and Pepper uncovers a tray of _sweets_ , while he fumbles in the desk to find the book and then thumbs through it to find the first clean page. Across the top is written: “The words of a wise man's mouth are gracious; but the lips of a fool will swallow up himself.” Ecclesiastes 10:12 “For by thy words thou shalt be justified, and by thy words thou shalt be condemned.” Matthew 12:37

Peter blushes, and dips his pen into the ink, shooting Pepper what he hopes is a surreptitious look. Does she really think he’s a _fool_ for swearing like that, last night? He hadn’t meant to lower her opinion, but she’s been so cold, last night and today. He didn’t mean to- could one word do so much damage? He presses the pen gently onto the paper and begins writing, feeling the sinking feeling in his stomach grow and grow with every new loop of ink across the page.

~~~

Peter works furiously, as the others talk about Kingpin and what they think the Empire should do to ensure no other distant contacts get similar ideas. When Phil arrives, he’s escorted by Jarvis, and announced as Mr. Coulson. Peter takes a short break- he’s on the twelfth copy- to watch the man nod at him in greeting and walk seriously to Clint’s side.

Feeling dismissed and small again, Peter watches Phil stare at Clint until Clint bursts out, “I did what I could, okay? Look, not one mark on my whole head, tucked it tight, immediately!”

“Did I say I was disappointed in your work?” asks Phil mildly, as Happy stands and offers Phil his seat on the couch closest to Clint’s chair. “Thank you, Happy,” he murmurs, sinking down and returning his sharp gaze to Clint. 

“How could you be?” murmurs Natasha smoothly, resting her hand in Clint’s hair gently. “His work was excellent.”

“Exactly,” agrees Phil, leaning forward to take two cookies from the tray and pass one to Clint, pressing it into his hand. “Above average, as always, Hawkeye.”

Clint makes a sound like a wet laugh and tips his head back, clearly exhausted and emotional over the man’s presence. Peter startles, because maybe Clint _is_ hurt badly, worse than he’s letting on. He shifts a little, because maybe he should get up, go check on him. Everyone else is quick to talk around the man, folding Phil into their earlier discussion with ease, but Peter only has eyes for Clint, and surely Clint is more important than lines?

Steve glances over at Peter, the only one in the room who seems to pay any attention to the school desk and its occupant, and shakes his head once, frowning. Peter glowers at him, but shifts again, gripping the pen a little tighter. Fine. He’ll get done with these lines, then, and _then_ he’ll check on Clint, make the man rest before dinner. He scowls down at the empty page and dabs more ink onto his nib, frowning in concentration.

He gets another dozen or so done before he notices that Natasha has wandered near enough to read over his shoulder. It makes his hand jerk self-consciously, ruining the last word of the line. He grunts, offended by the error, because he’ll have to re-write the whole thing, now.

“What does it mean?” she asks him quietly.

Peter scowls at the words in loops and lines across the page and says, “They’re both Biblical phrases. The first one means a smart fella talks carefully and a dummy is just gonna get himself into trouble saying dumb things. And the second one is that your words are either gonna get you into trouble or get you out of trouble, so be careful which ones you say.”

“Those are true,” she says in a tone of mild surprise. “Why did she pick these things for you to write?”

“Because-” sighs Peter, trying not to get drawn into a conversation that anyone else in the room will overhear, “last night I was a dummy and I took the Lord’s name in vain because I was tired and angry, and she wants me to think about the consequences of doin’ that while I copy the words down.”

“And are you?” asks Natasha slowly. “Thinking about consequences?”

Peter shrugs. “Mostly. I sure feel like a dummy. And she’s mad at me, still.”

“Over one word?” asks Natasha, curiously, leaning in, her eyes on the writing in the book.

Peter shifts uncomfortably. “O-over, I mean, no,” he sighs, admitting it to himself. He looks up at Natasha, who looks back, merely interested in what he has to say. “It’s, it’s more complicated than that, ‘Tasha,” he tells her. “Pepper don’t ask for much, you know? She’s High Society and she lets us just kinda run wild, even me, even though I want to learn better. I've never said that word before, Tasha,” Peter confesses quietly. Even quieter, he says, “And I think she knew that I never said it before last night.”

“But Peter,” asks Natasha, lowering her voice to match his, “why did you say it, then?”

He looks up at her for a long moment before whispering, “Because I split my lip, again, and she was putting on liniment and I- I couldn’t run away.”

She tilts her head at him, her eyes sharp and bright. “And you wanted to. Very much?”

“Buncha idiots kidnapped me, covered me in bruises, threatened worse, all night,” Peter reminds her. 

“That could make a man want to run,” she concedes. She tilts her head again to ask, as if she’s just thought of it, “Run from _us_?”

“They didn’t want _me,_ ” Peter mutters hotly, “they just wanted a Stark, any Stark. So yeah, not being a Stark? Could look real good to a smart guy.”

“But you didn’t run,” she says slowly.

“No,” he agrees, looking anywhere but up at her, cheeks coloring a little. “Promised Pepper, I’d come back to her. Couldn’t leave her worrying. Couldn’t make _anyone_ worry worse.”

“I begin to see,” she sighs.

“Yeah,” he mutters.

“And so, coming home, it makes you scared and sad and… mad, that you come to her even though you want to run, and so you say this word you know will make her sad and mad, too, so you are not alone with those feelings,” she muses quietly aloud.

“What?” hisses Peter, heart pounding a little harder. “No. I just lost my temper and acted a fool about the liniment, that’s all.”

“Acted a fool,” muses Natasha. “Yes, because you think a smart man would have run, yes?”

“I don’t know,” mutters Peter, dipping his pen in the ink and starting on his next copy of the phrases. “Maybe.”

“And you are foolish for us. And that makes you mad,” she says slowly. 

He hunches his shoulders, done with this conversation, trying to get his assigned work done before dinner, thanks. He feels like Bob Cratchett hunched over his work, with the ghost of Too Much Thinking there to torment him instead of Mr. Scrooge.

“Petya,” she says softly, “you are so smart. Phil says this, and he is only a little less smart than Tony, I think. And Tony says this, and I believe he is the smartest man in our world.” Peter tries not to let his pen jerk again, focuses on keeping it steady. “You are so smart,” she repeats. “I think you say this word to Pepper because there are other words you wanted to give her, words about running away. Words about why you came home to her, instead. Words a smart man would give to her, if he was brave enough to be a little foolish.”

Peter feels tears hot in his eyes and concentrates harder on the paper in front of him, on the motion of the nib, on creating a perfect copy for Pepper, like she asked him to do.

“She does not want this, these lines,” Natasha says calmly. Peter glances up at her still face for a moment, before adding ink and beginning the next line, careful of the spelling of Ecclesiastes. He’s almost messed that up twice, now.

“Coulda fooled me, the way she set me to writing them,” he grits out, finally, when Natasha says nothing more, but doesn’t leave his side, either.

“She wants the words you didn’t give her last night,” says Natasha gently. “You gave her the wrong word, last night, foolish ones, instead of smart.”

Peter hunches his shoulders and concentrates on the next words. They both watch his pen travel through to the end of the copy and then Natasha says, “You will give her the words she wants. Here, at the end, when you are done with these boring lines. You will write them for me. I, too, was worried. You owe me,” she says, and Peter remembers his earlier words to Clint and almost smiles. 

“What words?” he asks plaintively. Talking with Natasha is such a brain-twisting adventure when it’s just about what was in the papers or the music she’d listened to in the clubs the night before. Right now it’s like trading riddles with a sphinx. 

“What words you would say to her, if you could go back, and be truly foolish,” she challenges him quietly, and then leans over and presses a kiss to the top of his head before wandering off to go sit by Phil on the couch. 

Peter blows out a breath and catches Steve’s eye. The man gives him a cheerful smile and tilts his head as if he’s asking if Peter needs him. Peter shakes his head and returns to his next copy, thinking about Natasha’s words, over and over again. He copies almost mindlessly, investing only enough energy to make the copy, turn the page, and write the phrases again, over and over. 

His mind isn’t on his work, which is why some of the loops are a little helter-skelter, why some are a little fatter or thinner than perfection would allow. His mind is on the idea of writing Pepper a note, to say all of the things he couldn’t say last night.

The next time he glances over, it’s because they’re all laughing. Harley wanders in and declares, “Ok, what’s the joke? Sounds like the cat’s pajamas in here, someone deal me in, I’m ready to play.”

Pepper must smile warmly at him, because he ambles over to sit on the floor beside her, leaning against her legs. Phil begins to explain something that has Steve and Happy both breaking into broad grins again. Peter can’t see much of Pepper and Harley, but he catches a movement that must be her stroking Harley’s hair and his eyes, still stinging with unshed tears, feel even hotter. He eyes Clint, propped up in his nest of pillows and looking tired but happy as they all of them chuckle at Harley’s hoot of laughter. 

Peter pulls his eyes off of the scene as Bucky enters the room, Tony right behind. He blows out a breath and gets back to work. He gets two more copies made while the group swaps stories and laughs, until Bucky wanders over and lifts his chin. Peter swipes at his eyes, angrily, and Bucky mutters, “Angel, you almost done? Dinner won’t wait for you, got the Italians coming in, Boss wants to tell ‘em thanks for the assist.”

Peter nods, not trusting his voice. When Bucky continues to look down at him, his expression unreadable, Peter jerks his chin out of the man’s grip and mutters, “Two left. Then, ‘Tasha said I gotta write a- a short essay. Should be ready on time.”

“If I don’t keep interrupting you, I got it, Angel. Just checking on you, that’s all,” chuckles Bucky. He turns to watch the group and says, quietly, “Hard being put in the corner, ain’t it? Couldn’t ever do it to Harley, he's been ignored while the rest of the world had cookies passed around too often, ya know? Don’t think I’d be able to do it to you, either. Here, for when you’re done,” he mutters, setting a cookie next to the ink well, and walks back to the group.

The last two copies are a little harder to write. And then Peter hovers the pen nib at the top of the next page, and takes a deep breath for courage. He writes furiously, faster and faster, filling half and then almost all of the page before writing, With Love, Peter Stark. The first tear splats on the page but he leans back quickly and the next one doesn’t mar his work at all.

“Peter?” asks Pepper quietly, and he looks up, startled. The room has mostly emptied and Pepper is standing so close, and he’s not sure how either of those things happened. “I see the lines, but what’s this?”

“‘Tasha said-“ he croaks at her, clearing his throat and continuing, ducking his head, “Tasha said the lines wasn’t gonna be enough.”

“Mm,” she says, raising an eyebrow and holding out a hand for the book. “Who slipped you the cookie? Natasha?”

“No, ma’am,” responds Peter, feeling guilty although he didn’t touch it, didn’t ask for it. “Bucky.”

She blows out an exasperated breath and mutters, “Of course the Wolf.” She carefully turns to the first page, her lips moving as she counts. He sees her skip the one he’d messed up when Natasha came over, and continue counting serenely until the last one. He looks away, then, down at the desk, his face heating up, as she reads his letter, his words for her.

“Oh,” she breathes, swaying back a little. “Oh, Peter,” she murmurs, her voice thick with emotions that make the tears start in his eyes, too. “Yes, of course, of course I do,” she tells him, putting a hand first on his shoulder and then pulling him tightly to her. “Of course. Yes.”

“You do?” he mumbles into the soft fabric at her waist.

“I do,” she tells him firmly, but her stomach trembles and he can hear the tears in her voice as she continues, “Remember, you’re my Angel, for me, whatever anybody else says.”

Peter nods, his chest hurting as he struggles not to burst entirely into sobbing relief. His bruised cheek rustles against the soft fabric, making him wince.

“Oh, this won’t do,” she scolds them both, laughing a little and dropping her arms down from their tight hold of Peter. “Here, tip up your face, let me clear it. I have to change for dinner, anyway,” she mutters, wiping any trace of tears from his face with the hem of her skirt and doing the same for her own flushed cheeks. “Okay, no more tears, Peter Stark. And none from me, either,” she says sternly. 

“Yes, ma’am. I mean, no ma’am,” says Peter earnestly.

“Pair a saps,” mutters Clint from the chair where he’s still propped. “But don’t mind me, sitting here, being mystified about what’s going on. I’m only sitting here until the doc comes in for us, anyway.”

Pepper smiles at Peter and says, “You hate reading, Clint. I’ll catch you up on all the good gossip at a better time.”

“Can’t be a better time than just before the doc’s coming to poke and prod at us, right, Angel? You gonna eat that cookie before or after he checks up on you?” grunts Clint.

“You were very busy,” Pepper tells Peter with a smile, when Peter’s eyes fly up to hers. “It was a unanimous decision to have the doc come take a look at you and Clint both.”

“Oh, I dissented about needing a check up for _me_ ,” grumbles Clint, shifting a little in the pillows. “But, yeah, mighta voted that it couldn’t hurt to have the doc check that lip out, them bruises on your back, Angel.”

Peter sighs. “As long as Harley stays out, though,” he warns Pepper, whose eyes crinkle. 

“Yes, I can imagine the scene over your feet,” she murmurs serenely. “You should have been here the time I twisted my ankle,” she continues, lifting a brow at Clint as if to jog his memory. “Between them, Harley and Tony had decided to get me a palanquin and litter-bearers to carry me everywhere.”

“Hey, I was all in support of the idea,” chuckles Clint. “Putting you in a closed and covered box so you can’t whisper secrets to Natasha still sounds like a smart decision, to me.”

“When have you ever not benefited from the two of us whispering secrets, Clint?” asks Pepper in a smooth, teasing tone that makes Peter blush, because it _implies_ things, things about Natasha and Pepper. He’s shocked when he risks a glance at Clint to find the other man is also flushed, his fingers tapping nervously on the chair arm.

“Time or two,” he says vaguely. “Sure of it.” Pepper chuckles in a way that makes the man’s lips curl just at the edges, and he shoots her a quick glance that’s heated. Peter shifts in his spot on the couch, uncomfortable.

The door creaks open and the deep, calm voice of Doc Banner calls behind him, “Yes, yes, I will be thorough, Harley, no need to attempt to teach me to suck eggs.”

Peter winces and tosses Pepper a pleading look, but there’s no need, because Phil’s voice continues, “Get yourself on to your next job, see? Or I’ll let the Boss know you were dawdling.”

Doc Banner enters the room, shaking his head and carrying a small black bag. His hands are bandaged, Peter notes with concern, straightening up. He smiles broadly at the three of them and says, “Well. My last two patients of the day, and my favorite two, what a pleasant end.” 

Phil slips in quietly, behind him, and crosses to Clint’s chair, sitting back on the couch seat he’d vacated moments before and lifting Clint’s bandaged hand, slowly unwinding the wrappings, not a word spoken between them.

Pepper smiles back at Doc Banner and says, “Bruce,” in a warm, welcoming tone of voice. “Who will you have first?” she asks.

“Clint,” he says decisively. Clint groans, but begins the obviously painful process of taking off his suspenders right there, in Pepper’s parlor, thinks Peter, swallowing. 

Pepper crosses back to the door and flicks the handle, engaging the lock, before doing so at the other two doors and drawing the curtains, as well as turning up the light. She’s efficient and fast, but Peter isn’t surprised to turn his gaze back to Clint to find that between them, Bruce and Phil have the man’s shirt mostly unbuttoned, and are shortly helping to ease him out of it.

There’s- a lot of bruising, Peter thinks, nauseated. Clint is every color of the rainbow, everywhere that Peter can see from his angle. Pepper presses a hand on Peter’s uninjured shoulder and propels him forward, to sit on the loveseat next to Clint’s chair, where Steve sat during tea.

Phil makes a noise as they skim Clint’s undershirt up off of his torso, and Clint says, huskily, “Ain’t nothing, boss, promise. Taken worse in alleys.”

“Not _my_ alleys,” says Phil shortly. “Did you give him the rubdown last night?” he asks Pepper.

“Yes, Phil,” she says, in the same warm tone she’d used with the doctor earlier. “And this morning.”

“Surprisingly few patches of broken skin, nothing on the head,” remarks the Doc, his voice calm and cool as he twists Clint’s limbs this way and that, ignoring the hand for now. He takes out his stethoscope and listens to Clint’s stomach, his heart, his breathing, and says, “Everything’s moving along, you have no pain when I press here? Or here?”

“Didn’t get to my stomach,” Clint grunts. “Told you, Phil, I tucked up, and their hearts weren’t in it, not really. Just a bunch of weekenders, not a real crew at all.”

“Extensive bruising to your ribs,” mutters Doc Banner, but he’s not arguing, just commenting, Peter thinks. “I’m going to press on it, I need to feel if anything shifts-”

“Just go ahead doc,” grunts Clint irritably. “Get it over with.”

Clint makes no noise as Doc slides his hands up and down Clint’s back and sides, but Peter watches his lips press together and how his injured hand, held in Phil’s, jerks and squeezes, before falling limp.

“Nothing feels broken,” reports the doctor.

“It’s a circus miracle,” quips Clint, relaxing back a little. Phil shakes his head at Clint and Clint shrugs back at him, in who knows what silent communication.

Doc Banner slides Clint’s injured hand out of Phil’s hands and pores over it, twisting it this way and that, making Clint hiss. Peter watches as sweat begins to form on Clint’s forehead, and marvels a bit at his calm composure, his own bruises aching in sympathy. “Nothing broken, not that I can feel,” declares the doctor, eventually. “Flesh damage. Nothing torn, or- it’ll be fine, Clint, you’ll be shooting arrows and slinging bullets again in a couple of weeks.”

Clint lets out a shaky breath and Peter realizes the man had hoped, but hadn’t known for sure.

“Stand up, let’s have a look at the rest of it,” says the Doc shortly, and Peter winces, looking up at Pepper standing beside him. Shouldn’t she- she shouldn’t be here for this, should she? She shouldn’t, she can’t- this is, he’s not sure _he_ should be here. But she’s serene and calm, and Phil is, too, and neither Clint nor the Doc pause to ask her to turn or shoo her away.

Clint’s pants are always loose, anyway, Peter’s noted that, so when he stands with his suspenders slipped off, they slide down his hips. Peter’s shocked to realize, as Bruce eases them the rest of the way down, that the man’s not wearing _drawers_ , but from their lack of reaction, everyone else in the room expected that.

Peter’s heart pounds as he slowly thinks about Natasha and Pepper whispering secrets and Pepper not being shocked by Clint’s lack of drawers. He’s shocked, himself, and he looks away, looks over at the empty couch beside Phil, listening to Bruce murmur about the bruising, asking Clint if this hurts when he presses, when he touches, grabbing his stethoscope to listen to Clint’s lower abdomen, as well. 

Pepper tousles Peter’s hair, gently, absently, and murmurs, “See? He’s _fine_ , Angel. Bruised and a little battered, but nothing broken. Start unbuttoning that shirt, you’re next, and dinner won’t wait on us tonight.”

Peter’s hands go up to his shirt without any conscious effort on his part, as he tries very hard not to think about why Pepper’s not shocked by Clint’s lack of drawers. He’s learned that Phil wanders in and spends the night whenever he feels like it, and he doesn’t spend it in a guest bedroom. He’s not shocked by Phil. And the Doc has probably seen everything, he’s so unflappable. No, Peter’s shocked by _Pepper_ , shocked enough that he’s pulling the shirt off before he realizes she’s going to be here, again, as he shows off all of his bruises. Well. At least there won’t be liniment, he thinks resignedly.

The Doc pokes and prods Clint a few more times and then says, “Well, light duty, lots of rest. Bruises like that, you’ll be peeing dark, but you call me if there’s bright blood, any sudden pain, you know the drill, Phil.”

“I do,” concedes Phil, with a warning glance at Clint as Clint attempts to mumble something about _not needing a nursemaid_. Clint rolls his eyes and nods, pressing his lips tightly, after Phil cocks his head to one side, eyebrow raised. Peter could watch Phil and Clint all afternoon, and ‘Tasha, too, with their silent language, trying to decipher the things they no longer need to say. Phil helps Clint slide the undershirt down and the pants up, resettling him back in the chair as he grunts. “Good work,” he murmurs, and Peter blushes to hear it, because Phil’s loaded the word with all kinds of emotions, emotions that run deep and fast and hot and thick with approval. Maybe there’s a reason they don’t do much talking, Peter considers. Peter’s just a bystander and he feels scorched.

“Last patient,” chirps Doc, somehow sounding exhausted and energized at the same time. “Oh, good, Pepper, thank you, well, well, well. Little close to the eye for my comfort, some swelling there, and the bastard was wearing rings, wasn’t he, Clint?” he murmurs, his eyes flashing briefly as his hands tilt Peter’s head deftly to hold his face up for examination. “Bony knuckles,” he mutters. “You iodine the cuts?”

“No,” replies Pepper evenly. “They were washed with soap and water, Steve handled it last night.”

“Well, they don’t need bandages. They’re fine. Keep a close eye out for infection, with rings you never know, but other than some swelling, nothing in the eye. Here, Peter, follow my knee-knocker with those pretty peepers of yours,” the Doc orders with a smile, gliding the medical instrument to the left, the right, up and down, and holding Peter’s chin in a tight grip so he has to follow the movements with his eyes.

“It’s called a reflex hammer,” says Peter, a little resentfully. He’s not a _child_.

“So it is,” agrees the Doc evenly. He thumbs at Peter’s lip and says, “Hurts?”

“Not ‘til you touch it,” mutters Peter awkwardly, as the Doc’s thumb rests on his lip, mangling the words a little. Doc Banner smiles, then, and says, “Funny, looks like two tears, Peter. Wasn’t two tears last night, when I saw you in the basement.” He stretches out Peter’s lip gently, carefully, to look inside while Peter squirms a little, at being caught, because if Pepper or Phil or Clint ask _why_ it has another tear, what’s he going to _tell_ them? “Doesn’t go far enough to need a stitch, and it’s healing pretty well. Light duty, lots of rest, Peter,” he chides, looking sternly at Peter, although his eyes are twinkling. Clint snorts, and Peter can feel the blood rush to his face, and he looks down at Doc Banner’s hands, digging in his black leather bag.

The Doc presses his stethoscope to Peter’s chest, listens silently, then runs his hands up and down, everywhere over Peter’s torso, and Peter wants to snort because he’s being groped, that’s what’s happening here, except the Doc pauses right over the place where Barney had thrown the punch and frowns. “You take a hit here, too, last night?” he asks sharply. “Some internal swelling, Peter Stark.”

“What?” asks Clint, glaring up from the buttons he’s attempting to wrestle away from Phil’s quick fingers in order to close himself with his fumbling ones. “He punch you in the gut, too? God _damnit_ , Barney. Went too quick with him, Doc.”

“I don’t believe I did,” murmurs the Doc quietly, and the other people in the room still for a second. Peter can feel the sudden tension everywhere and remembers Harley’s voice saying, _...well, except when he’s on his tiger milk. Worst devil working for Mr. Stark, then._ It makes him shiver, because everyone is so cautious about the Doc. He remembers Steve’s sleepy question when Harley had woken Peter up, arriving home, asking how Harley was, because _the Doc was in it_ , like the Doc being involved meant it wasn’t safe. Harley regularly goes out with the Butcher and the Widow and the Wolf, but somehow, the Doc being around makes it all unsafe, and that, that more than anything is terrifying.

Or maybe the terrifying part is that this is the man they’ve sent to check Peter over and patch him up. 

Doc Banner looks up at him with soft, liquid eyes, gentle, and says, “Not on my hooch now, Peter. Safe as a lamb, promise.”

Peter blows out a breath and Doc Banner inquires again, “Were you punched here, last night, Peter?” pressing firmly at the ache in Peter’s stomach.

Peter nods, and the Doc frowns. “Hm. No severe distention, no rigidity, but clearly tender, clearly a little swollen. No alarming blood in your stool or urine, no faint feeling, Peter?”

“No, sir,” says Peter earnestly.

“How about your left shoulder? Feeling fine?” asks Doc Banner, frowning in concentration, “although we’d know by now, if the spleen had taken a tear,” he mutters to himself.

“No, sir. Left one isn’t busted at all,” Peter reassures him, confused by what a left shoulder has to do with a spleen.

“Hm. Well, young man-” and here he frowns at Peter, his dark liquid eyes made more intense by eyebrows that draw down. “-you alert your keepers the minute, I mean the minute, your pain- anywhere, but especially in your stomach- gets worse. I mean it, gut damage is nothing to take lightly.”

“Yes, sir,” promises Peter faithfully.

“Any blood shows up in your stool, your urine, you report it,” orders the Doc, with that same frightening intensity. “I mean it, Peter Stark, gut wounds are how people rot from the inside out.”

“Oh, Bruce,” murmurs Pepper, sliding down onto the arm of the couch and settling a hand on the back of Peter’s neck, “you don’t think--?”

“I do not think we have anything to worry about,” he tells her calmly, settling back a little, twisting Peter by his elbow to get a good look at Peter’s right shoulder. “But I am setting the boundaries of good patient behavior _now_. He _will_ learn to speak up and say something before it’s emergency surgery and life-or-death midnight calls. Won’t you, Peter?”

“Yes, sir,” Peter promises, again, twisting so that the Doc can have the best view of his shoulder.

“There. This is a _nasty_ bruise,” and Doc clucks his tongue in sympathy. “Or maybe it’s just how young and innocent the shoulder is that bears it, eh, Clint?”

Clint chuckles. “Yeah, looks worse on the Angel because he’s such a babyfaced kid. On me it’d look like Thursday night.”

“Friday, surely,” says Pepper cooly, with a small smile that causes Clint to blush. Peter looks between the two of them and decides to stop guessing and focus on the Doc, who is also smiling as he sighs, “Well, I know you’ll slather on the liniment, no matter what I say, Mrs. Stark.”

“It works,” say Pepper and Clint in unison firmly, as Phil smiles at them both and shakes his head.

“It makes it hurt _worse_ and it smells bad,” mutters Peter. The Doc pauses, and puts his hands on Peter’s knees. He looks up into Peter’s face and says, slowly, “There is, at present, no evidence to support the use of liniment on bruising beyond any analgesic effect, Master Peter. However,” and his eyes become stern and serious, causing Peter’s breath to catch as he drops his eyes back to the man’s black bag beside him, “it will not do further harm, and I expect you to follow the instructions of the people who care for you. Is that clear?”

“Clear, sir,” mutters Peter.

“Now, is there any further damage your physician should be aware of?” the Doc asks him, almost gently, shaking Peter’s knees a little.

“Bruises on the backs of my legs, just a couple, but no, nothing bad,” mumbles Peter, a little wary.

“Mm. Pepper?” inquires the Doc, and Peter flushes as he realizes he’s asking her to confirm this assessment. He _told_ everyone Barney punched him, he wasn’t _hiding_ it! It’s just everyone was all worried about his face. No one said he could have busted guts, no one said that was something to worry about, or he’d have told them more about the punch! He gently touches the spot on his belly where the Doc had felt the swelling. It does feel, uh, squishier, than the rest of his belly, and it’s tender, a low ache. There’s still no bruise, though.

“Small, little ones, not too deep, not too extensive,” she reports rapidly. “From the bootheels of the men, in the truck as they rode to the… hideout?”

“Safehouse,” correct Clint grimly.

“Not so safe,” murmurs the Doc, patting Peter’s knees. “We made sure of that, didn’t we, Mr. Barton?”

Clint chuckles, a little rustily, and grunts, “Yeah. Sure did.”

“Well, there’s no need for them to be on any kind of restricted diet, although of course we’ll be keeping an eye on Peter’s system, make sure everything is moving smoothly and on-” he clears his throat a little- “the correct course. No alcohol, for either one, it thins the blood too much. I believe I’ll stay a few days, keep an eye on things,” he adds cheerfully.

“Oh, good,” says Pepper, smiling broadly. “Natasha will be so pleased.”

“Oh, brother,” sighs Clint, sharing a wry glance with Phil. “The worst part is, she really will. She’s taken a real shine to you, Doc.”

Bruce stands, fiddling with his bag and announces, “I assure you, I’m as shocked as you are.”

“No one is shocked,” laughs Pepper, and Peter knows it’s rude to argue, so he doesn’t put in that _he’s_ shocked. “Natasha always does like the more thrilling attractions at Coney Island.”

Bruce smiles at that, while Clint smirks and Phil nods agreement. “Shirt on, Peter,” says Pepper crisply. “Unless I’ve completely lost all sense of timing, I believe there’s time for you to run and get your dinner jacket on, do something about that hair, while Phil and the Doc get Clint settled in the dining room.”

Peter flees, glad to go on a simple errand with no ominous or disturbing undertones.

~~~

Up in their room, Harley is slicking his hair back with pomade, clearly dressed to thrill. Peter admires the view while he pulls on a much less flashy suitcoat. Harley whistles, finishing with his hair, and says, “Brother, there’s a rainbow on your cheek. Anybody tell you to try to cover it up?”

Peter shakes his head and then asks, “Will you do my hair? Pepper said she wanted it done for dinner, but I don’t-”

“Yeah, c’mere,” sighs Harley, but Peter knows he’s just pretending to be put-upon by the way he smiles as Peter steps closer, his eyes lighting up a little bit as he continues, “I know what she wants done. Her and ‘Tasha, like the little details just right. Gonna look weird having nice hair and a busted up face, Angel,” he mutters, slicking his fingers and sliding them through Peter’s hair, taming it until Peter can see the outline of the fashionable cut he’d originally been given, weeks back.

“Can’t do anything about the face,” Peter tells him, shrugging apologetically.

“Yeah, I know,” says Harley faintly. He dips his chin and looks deeply into Peter’s eyes and says, awkwardly, “Sorry I can’t, either.”

“You didn’t do any-” begins Peter, but he’s interrupted by Harley, brusque and irritated- “I know I didn’t do anything, I wasn’t even there. I didn’t hit you, but you got hit, and you got hit _because_ I wasn’t there.” He tugs at Peter’s coat roughly, and Peter takes a steadying step to the side, looking up at Harley. He can feel his eyes widen as he watches emotions chase around Harley’s face, because there are tears there, tears in Harley’s eyes. Peter puts his hands out to cup Harley’s face and, his own throat tightening, he whispers, “Harls, there wasn’t anything you could do- any way you could know-”

“I know that,” grumbles Harley, but his voice catches a little and he repeats in a very quiet voice, “I know that. But look at your _face_ , Angel.”

“It’ll fix,” Peter tells him, slowly, feeling a certainty rise up from deep inside. “I promise, big brother, it’ll fix,” he says, grinning just a little. Harley looks at him in disbelief, and then, like he can’t help it, he begins to grin, too. 

“And in the meantime,” Peter says slowly, quietly, counting on that certainty from deep inside not to lead him astray, “you can practice being gentle with me.” He leans in and places a sweet, soft kiss on Harley’s lips, and is pleased when he surprises a grunt out of the other man. “See?” he whispers, his eyes closed, his lips brushing against Harley’s as he shapes the words, “Gentle can be nice, too, don’t you think?”

“You’re going to be the death of me,” Harley announces, his voice strangely strangled and weak, before he chuckles and says, “but what a death,” leaning forward the bare quarter-inch he needs to press his lips gently to Peter’s. This kiss is soft, too, and sweet, and lasts for several heartbeats, the two of them sharing air, sharing comfort, sharing joy at being together and being alive, before he pulls back and teases, his eyes sparkling again, “What a wife.”

“Not your wife,” huffs Peter, pulling back, too, stepping back, but he’s smirking a little. 

“Ten cabbage says Tony’s gonna seat you at his left hand,” Harley says, as they turn to exit the room together. 

“No bet,” says Peter, thinking of Tony growling, _Mine_ , earlier that afternoon. He’s honestly surprised he’s been allowed out of the man’s direct line of sight, upon reflection.

“Well, hop to it, got people to impress with how strong we Starks are,” teases Harley, holding open the door and bowing Peter into the doorway.

~~~

Tony holds court at dinner, at home in his Sheik persona, loud and sparkly and dandified. He places Peter on his right, and the head of the Families, a man he calls, respectfully, Godfather Salvatore, on his left. The table is set for thirty-seven, and laden with enough food for twice that, Peter guesses. The wine flows freely, here, at the heart of the Stark Empire, and everyone eats and laughs and Peter is not at all surprised when Tony and Pepper both prove fluent in Italian, although he stops and listens carefully because the words sound exotic and beautiful in their voices. Maybe it’s the rich food and loud, laughing company, maybe it’s that he has no idea what they’re saying, but the language is lilting and musical and Tony’s at his best, laughing and gracious and generous with his approval and compliments.

The door opens just after the plates are cleared for the dessert course, but before the dessert can be revealed, and behind the stream of servants slips Jarvis, which is a bit unusual. He walks with his measured pace to Pepper, and murmurs something into her ear. Tony’s eyes tighten as she nods at Tony and murmurs something back to Jarvis. Peter watches Tony and Pepper have a silent conversation with their eyes as Jarvis walks the length of the table, stopping at Tony’s left side to dip his head and say something too quietly for Peter to catch it.

“Let him in,” says Tony, smiling broadly. “He’s always welcome here, you know that, Jarvis.”

“Very good, sir,” says Jarvis, winking at Peter before turning and walking the long length of the table. Pepper sighs at Tony, who shakes his head at her, and then waggles his finger at her in a mock scolding. She shocks Peter by downing the dregs of her wine glass and setting it firmly in front of Steve’s plate to her left. 

Peter watches Steve look at the glass, then up at Pepper’s face, eyes flicking to Mr. Jarvis’s back. He elbows Bucky, and whispers in Bucky’s ear when the man turns. Bucky rolls his eyes and he must kick Harley under the table because Harley jumps and Bucky taps his breast pocket and mouths a word. Harley snickers and leans aside to Natasha, to whisper something in her ear. Clint catches the motion, down the table a ways, and Peter watches him straighten as he gives some signal to Phil who nods and leans in to say something to the Doc, quietly.

“Angel, I ever introduce you to my best friend?” asks Tony quietly.

“No, sir,” Peter answers.

“Well, now’s as good a night as any. Try and look hard-done-by, if you can,” teases Tony.

“Detective Inspector Rhodes, sir, madam, honored guests,” intones Mr. Jarvis, opening the door.

“Mr. Stark, I got a bone to pick with you,” calls a clipped and exasperated voice, as its owner strides into the room. Peter gapes a bit, as the Italians sit back in their chairs, clearly prepared to take action. The man is a copper, in full uniform, badge shining brightly even in the dimmed gas light of the dinning room.

Tony laughs and shouts, “Well, Inspector, pick away, the only time I get to see the shine of your eyes is when you got a beef with me, anyway.”

“If I find out you’re committing mass murder just to get my attention, Tony,” says the man quellingly, and Tony and Harley both burst into laughter.

“Like he’d want you interrupting our dinner parties,” scoffs Harley.

“Is he finally letting you sit at the adult table, Cat? Musta picked up enough manners to know when to shut your trap,” says the man severely, which knocks Harley back a breath, Peter can tell. The man strides along the table slowly, his badge flashing brightly. The Italians are relaxed, calm, as he strolls behind them, or at least- Peter looks closer- at least they _look_ relaxed and calm.

“Aww, lay off him. I ain’t tamed him yet, and you know it. But he can’t learn manners he don’t see displayed,” Tony tells the man warmly. “How ya been, Honeybear?”

“You know, I’ve had easier days,” drawls the man, as Harley snickers and leans forward to roll his eyes at Peter.

“Not one single thing bothering you traces back to _me_ , because I know I been squeaky clean the last few weeks,” says Tony confidently. Peter breathes carefully and does not snort. Harley, however, bursts into giggles. 

“What?” demands Tony in mock outrage. “What, Hellcat? I ain’t done nothing!”

“Yes, sir,” hisses Harley, choking on another giggle. “I seen ya do a whole lot of nothin’ these past two weeks or more, sir.”

“Impeccable character references, as always,” snarls the copper, sharing an obviously-familiar sneer with Harley.

“I don’t pay him for those,” says Tony, a small smile playing on his lips. “That’s why I pay _you_ , Rhodey.”

 _Oh. Oh!_ _Tony’s best friend_ , thinks Peter, and he knows his eyes widen just a bit, as he thinks through all the implications.

“You don’t though, Tony,” says Inspector Rhodey, frowning as he draws nearer. “You don’t pay me.”

“That’s right,” drawls Tony, still smiling. “ _You_ pay _me._ How are the new Stark 1920As working out, on your side of the line?”

“You want a report, show up for the meetings,” retorts Rhodey, eyes flashing. “Speaking of, I sat through about fifteen today, on account of last night.”

“My, my, my,” chuckles Tony, taking a sip of his whisky and sharing an amused look with Godfather Salvatore, whose hands stay pointedly in his lap, his nearly-empty glasses untouched, “busy day.”

“Busy night,” corrects Inspector Rhodey. 

“Wouldn’t know about that,” says Tony, eyebrows rising. “Caught an opera down in Little Italy with Salvatore here, his nephew is playing the captain of the guard, Ferrando, you’d like it.”

“I wouldn’t,” states Rhodey flatly.

“You’d like the ending,” cajoles Tony, still smiling. “Maybe not the arias, but you’d like the ending.”

“Let me add a little coda, Tony,” growls Rhodey, his eyes narrowing. Tony opens his hand in invitation and takes another sip, his eyes sliding left to meet Harley’s, who bursts into a crowing laugh, taking a slug of his own liquor. 

Rhodey rolls his eyes and leans in to growl, “Fifteen meetings is fourteen too many, Tony. Get your streets under control or I will.”

The room goes silent. Harley, Peter notices, sits up straight, frowning.

Tony sets his glass down on the table and straightens before tossing the Inspector a smile that has a brittle warmth to it. “Why, Inspector, are you implying you expect private citizens to keep your peace for you?”

Pepper, down the long table, sighs loudly and interjects, “Oh, no, please, not this fight again, you two, go to the study and let the rest of us enjoy the cannoli.”

“Pepper,” they both protest, in unison, and she tilts her head at them, and says, slowly and carefully, enunciating each word clearly, “This is a dinner, and I am hostess. Rhodey, you know my rules and Tony-”

“My love, my only, the sun ripened lushness that brings meaning to my every day-” begins Tony, smiling, leaning forward, and the Italians shout with laughter and clear approval.

“Oh, you,” she scoffs, and this is met with more approval from the assembled men. She glares at Rhodey and waits for the chuckles to stop before she says severely, “No business at the table.” There’s a heartbeat as the whole room stills for the showdown between Lady Pepper and the Detective Inspector.

“Cannoli?” he asks her, after that moment, a small smile sliding over his face.

“Jarvis, bring a chair,” she says, graciously. “Place it down beside Mr. Stark, who can _shove over_ , I’m sure.” Her words are clipped but her eyes are dancing, Peter thinks, although maybe that’s the gas lights reflecting in them.

“Very good, madam,” Jarvis says in clear approval.

“Shove over, you hear her?” chuckles Tony, as conversation starts up and Jarvis gestures for a houseboy to lift a chair from the corner and place it beside Tony.

“You’re the worst influence on anyone, I’m just surprised it’s taken so long for your effect to begin showing,” Rhodey tells him bluntly, sitting and glaring at Tony as he takes another sip of the whiskey he hasn’t set down. “You gonna drink that right in front of me?”

“It’s apple juice,” protests Tony, “You got some kind of issue with apple juice I don’t know about? Orange grove union finally lobby to make it illegal and I missed it?”

“Uh-huh,” scoffs Rhodey. “This your new kid?”

“Peter, put your hand out for James Rhodes, my best friend,” instructs Tony.

“I’m his best friend, but I’ve got better ones,” the Inspector informs Peter. “That wine you’re drinking?”

“No, sir,” Peter tells him, honestly. “It’s, uh, grape juice.”

The Italians burst into laughter, shouting jokes back and forth, as Rhodey lifts an eyebrow at him and Harley hoots, “Tale padre, tale figlio, you hear that, boys? Tale padre, tale figlio.”

Peter offers Rhodey his wineglass, which makes everyone hoot even louder. The only two not shaking with mirth are the Doc and Pepper, who both smile at him and shake their heads as he looks to them for help, because it _is_ grape juice, it really is, Rhodey could try it and see for himself. Doc had _said_ no alcohol!

Rhodey snorts and says, “Keep it, kid. I ain’t on duty when I step into this place, anyway.”

“Never takes the badge off,” quips Tony, taking a sip, “but never brings his little notepad, either.”

“They’re not notes, Tony, they’re _citations_ , and they’re kind of a big deal, wish you’d wise up to that.”

Tony splutters and waves a hand, “Salvatore, you think I have any trouble with _citations_? Honest, upstanding citizen like me?”

“Parking tickets,” laughs Salvatore. “You are- you park your car in a no-parking zone, Mr. Stark, last week. I see it, with my own eyes, the citation you receive.”

“Well, sure, but that don’t _trouble me_ none,” chuckles Tony.

Rhodey sighs, a long-put-upon noise that has Peter’s lips twitching. Everyone’s face brightens as the doors open again, and the servants bring in tray after heaping tray of cannolis. 

“Cannoli,” sighs Tony contentedly. “As promised, my good friend, although… not as good as mom made, I’m sad to say.”

Salvatore bows his head graciously and intones, “God rest her soul, although, should she wish to whisper her recipe to my cook some night… I would light candles in thanksgiving.”

Tony smiles sadly, grabbing a cannoli from the pile and slipping it onto Peter’s plate. “Eat up, son,” he says, his smile growing more expansive. “Zio Salvatore doesn’t travel so far off his beaten path for anything less than the best cannoli the city has to offer.”

Peter nods and smiles across the table at the gentleman who has lifted three to his plate with a rapturous expression. His son, also called Salvatore, has lifted four.

“It’s good to see you like this,” mutters the elder Salvatore, brushing powdered sugar from his lips and considering Tony with a piercing gaze. “You- you were not so well, this morning, after the opera.”

“That true, Tony?” asks Rhodey sharply. “You have one of your fits of passion during the last act?”

“Had the Doc there to pull me through it,” says Tony shortly, his attention and focus entirely on picking through his dessert with his fork, careful neat tick-tick-ticks of his fork cutting the cannoli into precise small pieces before bringing each one up to his lips. “Harley and Natasha brought me back to my senses, too, relieved some of the pressure,” he says, glancing down the table to give them both nods of appreciation.

Natasha and Harley’s wicked grins are identical, Peter notes, as Rhodey says quietly, “The kid’s face have anything to do with that relief?”

Peter takes a quick breath, to defend Tony, but Tony glares at him faster than the words can rise up and says, carefully, “Nope. Had something to do with the choice of venue for the evening’s entertainments, though.”

“Ah. Wondered why you’d chosen that neighborhood- of course,” sighs Rhodey, taking another bite of cannoli and closing his eyes to savor the flavor. “Other than the face, you take any more damage?” he asks Peter, his voice hard.

“Don’t answer that,” says Tony, quickly, his mouth full of chocolate. “He’s digging.” 

Peter shakes his head, then, and says, quietly, “‘s good, Tony, the cannoli. I like it.”

The Italians around him cheer this on, with Salvatore the younger declaring, “I like him, we keep him, eh? Yes?” and Salvatore the elder confirming, “Yes, you keep him, Antonio. I like his spirit, too.”

“He’s raised Catholic,” Tony says, taking another bite. Rhodey hums in mild interest, but the Salvatores both stop eating to look at Tony. “Catholic?” asks the elder Salvatore.

“Yes, sir,” says Peter, his heart fluttering in his chest.

“You got a Godfather?” asks the younger Salvatore, shooting Tony a glance which Tony pointedly ignores.

“I had one,” answers Peter slowly. “My uncle, Ben, but he- the influenza-”

“Oh,” sighs the elder Salvatore, crossing himself. “God rest him. He raised a good boy, I know these things. Antonio, what are you thinking, eh? My son, for your son?”

Tony leans back a moment, his eyes sharp on Peter’s face before flicking to the elder Salvatore. “I wouldn’t ask, Godfather. Not so big a thing.”

“I’m offering,” announces the younger Salvatore, pointing his fork at Tony. His father beams with pride, nodding.

“Tony?” asks Peter quietly. Tony’s eyes snap to his. “My- my uncle,” explains Peter miserably. “He-”

“Yeah, I know, I can guess,” says Tony solemnly. “It’s a hard thing, to lose a man who guided your soul.”

Their end of the table is a bubble of quiet solemnity while Peter stares at Tony and Tony stares back at Peter, and both Salvatores and Rhodey watch quietly, desserts forgotten.

“You trust me?” Tony asks Peter, finally, after the moment has stretched out too long to be simple.

It’s a dumb question, so Peter scoffs and says, “Yes, Tony,” which makes both Salvatores laugh and Rhodey smile.

“Say ‘yes,’ then. Salvatore has been my godfather, chosen by my mother the week before my baptism, and I have never regretted it,” Tony tells him. He looks up at Salvatore and nods, repeating, “Never regretted it.”

The elder Salvatore swallows thickly and says, “Your mother was the delight of her family. In Italy, she would go dancing and we would watch, you know, and count the songs until it was our turn.”

Tony’s eyes are sad, when he returns them to Peter’s face, but his smile is wry as he says, “Up to you, son.”

Peter looks across the table at the younger Salvatore and nods. “Yes, sir, I’d like that.”

“Your Ben, he is, we know, the angel guardian of your soul. I will be but an earthly one,” Salvatore says, in a passionate tone that has several of the Italians within earshot pounding the table with their fists and muttering their obvious approval in Italian.

“Thank you,” says Peter simply, because the words are kind and the acceptance, the sentiment, even more kind.

Salvatore nods back to him, and his father wipes his eyes and shares a long look with Tony. 

“Antonio,” the elder Salvatore sighs eventually, “pass me another.”

Tony grins, and slides two more cannoli on the man’s plate, and turns the conversation deftly, saying, “Speaking of dancing, I saw Lucia-”

The amount of derisive scoffing that erupts as the men eagerly vie to tell the story of Lucia’s shocking behavior is loud and raucous, and Peter settles into his second cannoli with a smile, enjoying the flavors and enjoying the laughter about equally.


	7. Chapter 7

“No, absolutely not,” says Tony firmly, his hand making a short chopping motion, as if cutting off the conversation.

“But, Boss,” whines Harley, his face darkening in a way that makes Peter shift uncomfortably.

“No. Final word,” Tony says, raising a warning hand. Harley and Clint don’t flinch, but Peter does, sliding in under the arm to wrap his arms around Tony’s torso and mutter, “Okay, Tony. They was just asking. I don’t need it.” Clint gives him a head shake, as if to say, Peter’s been so good and taken his twice-daily liniment rub without much more than a few complaints, he deserves his bear. Peter shifts his head in a small shake and Clint steps back, conceding that Peter can make the call about pursuing the request to go into town. Peter feels a flush of pleasure that he’s learning how to talk silently, the way Phil and Clint have done all week.

“They were just pushing, you mean,” growls Tony, laying a kiss on the top of Peter’s head. Peter knows he’s glaring because he hadn’t stopped glaring from the first moment Clint had opened the discussion with the Boss. “You ain’t going out looking like that. The paper’s’d have a field day. Zio Salvatore and his crew ain’t gonna talk, but I’m not having the whole world thinking you can be hurt.”

“It’s not like we let ‘em off without payment,” mutters Harley, giving Tony a black look. Peter feels Tony tense and squeezes the man just a little, ignoring the twinge in his shoulder. 

“Everybody who needs to know that’s been told, but that news ain’t always gonna hit every circle, Hellcat,” sighs Bucky, elbowing Steve, who looks up from his paper, finally, and adds, “Peter, circus is in town ‘til Friday. Ask again on Thursday, maybe it’ll have faded enough by then.”

Tony is still glaring daggers at Steve when Peter pulls away a little and looks up into his face and says, “Yeah, Tony, okay,” softly, trying to reassure him that it’s not a big deal, he doesn’t _need_ the bear, okay? He’s not sure why Harley’s kicking up a fuss, but Peter’s not kicking up a fuss, so Tony should just ignore it. It’s nothing to worry about. 

Tony looks down at Peter’s upturned face and after a long moment, his lips twitch into a small grimace of regret. “Yeah, sorry, kid,” he says, adding, “I just- Starks gotta look untouchable. Too many big dogs hustling for the same meat in this city. And right now, you look _very_ touched.”

Peter nods, trying to push back his disappointment. “Yeah, Tony. It’s okay. Next year, right, Clint?”

“Can’t do William Tell, anyway,” confesses Clint, stretching his hand carefully. “Next year.”

“Or I’ll let you go chase the circus for a week or two, before they hit winter grounds,” offers Tony, but even Peter knows that’s not a real option. He’s barely been out of sight of Tony in the last two days, and has only been let out of sight of one of the Starks to use the bathroom. 

“Don’t need to,” Peter mutters, sliding in under Tony’s arm again, because he _can_ , because Tony doesn’t seem to mind a little clinging right now. “Don’t need the bear that badly.”

“Ask again on Thursday,” reminds Steve. 

“Shouldn’t need a bear to hold still for Pepper, anyway,” grunts Bucky, holding up his section of the newspaper again, clearly dismissing the argument.

“It’s not about the bear,” spits Harley, his face flushed. Peter presses away from Tony, taking a step towards the other man as Harley screws up his face and says, “It’s about the principle. Nobody scares a Stark off. We don’t hide, Tony.”

“Okay, enough,” says Pepper from her couch, putting aside her newspaper and glaring at the entire room, one by one. Beside her, Natasha follows suit, arching one impeccable brow. “We’re not hiding, Harley, and you know that. You’re smart enough to work through all of the very good reasons without anyone giving you hints, kindly apply yourself to that work. It’s good practice.” Harley looks like he’s about to spout something hotheaded, when Bucky clucks his tongue and Harley subsides, shooting _him_ a black look to match the one he’d thrown Tony. “Peter, thank you for being so reasonable about the trip to the circus. We _will_ make it up to you. Tony, _if_ Peter is better by Friday, I’d like to go, and I’d like you to come with us, to make sure Peter is safe. Bring as many guards as you’d like, I’m sure Clint’s circus family could use the additional dough in their pockets, as you say. Bucky, Peter doesn’t hold still for the bear, he holds still because I ask him to, and I’ll thank you not to pass judgement from the peanut gallery. Anyone else need any sorting out, or can Natasha and I return to keeping this Empire afloat without all these peacock fights?”

Peter would bite his lip, if he could, because the faces of the men around him are something else to behold. He smiles a very small smile at Pepper, who nods and says, “That’s what I thought. Peter, ask again on Thursday. Tony, Harley, go _do something_ , you’re both itching for a fight and I won’t have one in my rooms.” She turns to Natasha and mutters, “I like these carpets. They’re Sultanabads, both of them, and I love the patterns, and I won’t have blood on them. _Again_ ,” as she rustles her papers and quickly looks re-absorbed.

“They are very fine,” agrees Natasha, looking cooly over at Tony and Harley. She stands with slow grace and says, “Coming, gentlemen?” as she turns and sways her way over to the doors that connect to her suite. Peter would chuckle at the way Tony pats his shoulder absently as he releases Peter to follow, and the way that Harley nearly trips over his own feet, chasing after her, but honestly, it’s a bit of a relief.

Steve smiles at Peter and says, “They been strangling you a little, between ‘em?”

Peter sighs, “Just a bit. How much longer are they gonna act like this?”

“Oh, another month or two,” says Pepper, alarming him until he glances at her face and realizes she’s teasing him. “It’s only been a couple of days,” she reminds him, turning back to her papers. “It’ll be better once the bruise fades.”

“You think it’ll fade by Friday?” Peter asks Steve hopefully.

“Nope,” say Bucky, Steve, and Clint together, in unison. 

“Sorry, Angel,” continues Clint, grimacing in disappointment. “That raincheck on the bear… might have to keep it out a while longer than expected.”

Peter shrugs, “Okay, Mr. Barton. S’long as we can get back to practicing next week.”

“Probably can do that, if you go easy on me, Angel,” Clint says with a smile. He looks at the door to Natasha’s room and blows out a breath before muttering, “Glad they took her up on it, she’s been pacing like a tiger in a cage.”

“Tigress, surely,” murmurs Pepper from behind her papers.

Clint grins and agrees, “Surely.”

Peter sits next to Clint on the couch and picks up his newspaper again. He loves the way that Clint leans into him, loves the reassurance of the man’s chest rising and falling as he sits and begins to doze while Peter picks his way through the New York Times, ignoring the ads for the various circus attractions- one week only!- and ignores the twin twinges of disappointment and frustration that he’s missing _everything_ because Kingpin had to get a message to Tony Stark.

~~~

“I know you want to go,” says Tony softly, and Peter sighs, because he’d seen his face in the mirror that morning and he already knows. It’s not fair of Harley to push and push until Tony has to _say_ it, and Peter kind of resents that the other man’s mood is so erratic right now. Harley’s clearly _itching for a fight_ , as Pepper puts it, and it’s not been fair to Tony at all, Harley poking at him all week, straight up until breakfast today. Tony, who doesn’t mind being distracted from Peter but likes to keep Peter close, who even comes in to check on Peter at night, holding a dim lamp in one hand while Peter pretends not to have woken up. Tony, who doesn’t _want_ to tell Peter no, and who’s been doing a lot of telling Peter yes all week to make up for it.

“It’s fine, Tony,” Peter says firmly, resting his head on Tony’s knee, balancing the book he’d been reading before Harley had interrupted them, already shouting. He’d kept shouting, too, until Bucky grabbed him by the collar in a mean twist that looked like it cut of most of his air. Harley had whirled out of the room in a tizzy after that, Bucky on his heels already growling, and Peter doesn’t envy either one of them the scene that must, inevitably, have followed. “I don’t know why Harley’s all worked up about it.”

“Harley’s all worked up about a lot of things, son,” says Tony quietly, slipping his fingers through Peter’s hair, soft and gentle. “Most of which ain’t about you or me or the damn circus. Just let him be and when he blows, Bucky’ll help him sort out which things belong to now and us and which things belong to _then_ and _them_.”

Peter nods, because he can follow that logic. It’s been a long week, though, a long week of Tony’s careful and controlling supervision, Clint’s quiet stoicism, and Harley’s fiery temper. He can’t wait for this day to be over and for the circus to be packed up and _gone_ , so Harley will quit harping and they can all move on to other things.

“Wish we could make it right with you faster, baby boy,” sighs Tony. “Harley’s right about _that_ , anyway. Ain’t right having your sweet treat stolen by a bunch of thugs on my account.”

Peter stifles a sigh- there’s been an awful lot of sweet treats this past week, in Tony’s attempt to make up for missing the circus- and replies, “Heard they had their own accounts, and they got ‘em balanced. Been hearing about it all week, in fact.”

Tony huffs a laugh and admits, “All right, you got me there, baby boy. Go back to your book.”

Peter opens the book and tries to get reabsorbed again. Tomorrow’s Friday, and for all Harley’s pushing, he won’t be going to the circus this year, and that’s that. There’s plenty of other things in the world to be entertained with.

Even if none of the other delights are bears named Misha.

~~~

Days later, he’s sitting down to lunch, with Clint, Natasha, and the Doc, who’s here for a final check up. He hasn’t seen anyone but Clint and the Doc since breakfast, and, honestly? It’s a relief. Harley and Tony got into a skirmish of shouting at dinner the night before- Tony’d turned red before Bucky had wrestled Harley out of the room, and Peter hasn’t seen Harley since. He hasn’t seen Tony, either, but Tony’d been dragged out the opposite doors by Natasha and Pepper, both, Pepper cooly instructing Jarvis to have dinner trays delivered to Pepper’s rooms at nine. Peter wouldn’t have eaten another mouthful, but Steve had switched chairs to sit beside him and coaxed and cajoled until he’d eaten most of his dinner and felt better for it.

It was kind of nice to sleep through the night uninterrupted and to go back to having Steve as a shadow all morning, silent and secure and comforting in his familiarity. Steve’s hovering isn’t the same as Harley’s or Tony’s- it’s steady and soothing, unobtrusive and almost unnoticed by Peter. Clint had mentioned at breakfast that he felt up to taking Peter up to the range that afternoon, if the weather held, and Peter had felt his heart lift straight up into his throat at that news.

Doc clears his throat after taking a bite of the last of the cool salad and comments, “Well, this’s the last you’ll see of me for a bit, I suppose. I’ll miss the cooking.”

“Welcome here anytime,” Clint says forcefully, and Natasha and Peter back this up with their own mumbled agreements.

“Kind,” sighs the Doc, “But it’s better if I stay out in the sticks- when I need my elixir, it’s just safer that way.”

Natasha gives him a head shake of disagreement but says nothing. Clint nods like the Doc has a good point, and Peter copies him although he’s not sure why the Doc would _need_ the elixir that makes everyone nervous. There must be some reason, though, because they all accept the Doc’s need for his tiger milk tonic like it’s a foregone conclusion, a necessity, one of the facts of life.

Honestly, Peter’s just glad to be done with the constant inspections of his days-old and mostly faded injuries. He’s ready for things to feel normal again, to fall back into the old patterns. He’s ready for Tony to stop hovering and Harley to stop snarling, and he’s ready for Steve to get back from his last errand and tell Peter where the heck everyone is today. It’s strange to have more than a week of everyone breathing down his neck and then, suddenly, only see Clint and ‘Tasha all day today.

Steve enters the dining room as if drawn by Peter’s thoughts. “You kids almost done?” he asks brightly. “Boss’s got something cooked up for you, Angel, think you’re gonna like it.”

Peter looks at Clint, who looks back at him with wide eyes and a small smile of excitement. “I can be done,” decides Peter, dropping his fork to the plate. “Mr. Barton, ‘Tasha, Doc, you comin’ too?” he asks politely.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Natasha tells him, and that means she knows what the surprise is, Peter guesses. Well, that explains where she was all morning while him and Clint were getting poked and prodded by the Doc and left to fend for themselves by the rest of the family.

Steve leads the way, and Clint and Natasha stroll at the rear of their little procession as it winds through the mansion, up to the doors that Peter used to open daily, walking to the range. The glass panes of the doors are covered in paper and Peter frowns because, well, _why_? What does Tony have cooked up for him?

Harley pops his head through the door, spots Peter, and gives a shout of delight, “He’s here, Mr. Stark, hey, Boss, Steve’s got ‘im!”

A heavy hand pulls him back by the collar and he yelps, the door falling from his fingers, but so well hung it just holds there, tantalizingly cracked. His voice drifts back through the opening, shouting, “Knock it off, Sarge, Tony said I could-!”

Peter’s heart is beating strangely, as his steps falter once, twice, until Doc Banner presses a hand on his back, carefully avoiding the rapidly-fading bruise, to steady him. “C’mon, son,” he says fondly, “come see what medicine they’ve been working on for that busted heart of yours.”

Peter swallows, and looks up into Steve’s fond face, his body half-turned to look back at Peter. “Only a good thing,” he promises Peter. “Promise I know you’ll like it.”

Well. If Steve says he’s gonna like it…

Peter nods, and steps forward more boldly, letting himself feel the eagerness welling up inside, letting it carry him forward. Steve’s grin grows as he opens the door and Peter steps out, blinking a little at the harsh sunlight.

It’s an absolute menagerie, laid out on the carefully landscaped lawns of the Stark Mansion, and it’s absolute chaos everywhere he looks, still blinking and raising one hand to shade his eyes. Taking up the most immediate space, there is an elephant on a lead line, fully dressed for the Big Top with a feathered headdress that- he thinks guiltily- matches one Natasha had worn just last week. Pacing beside the elephant is a camel, he thinks, he’s pretty sure the camel is the one with the humpty back. 

His jaw drops as he realizes there’s a troupe of acrobats on the patio, tumbling together in impossible patterns and laughing loudly when one of them falls, only to be tossed back up into the formation by a huge man who shouts something that sounds chiding in a foreign language. Beside the tumblers are three women- no, two women and a boy- standing on horses, calm and cool and collected. Beside him, Clint shouts, “Heya, what’s all this? You makin’ house calls, now?”

The assembled people, packed onto the lawn with carts that chitter or chirp or grunt, all burst into applause and laughter. 

“For you?” shouts a loud voice, “Sure, Hawkeye!”

“For Hawkeye?” counters another voice, from the back. “Nah, but for his Boss’s deep pockets, sure!” There’s loud laughter and several of the tumblers do enthusiastic flips as if they can’t contain their agreement.

“I am Groot!” shouts a voice from the middle and Peter’s heart skips a beat, searching for that strange face. “I am Groot!” the youth repeats, pushing forward through the crowd. The strange man tilts his head, crosses his arms and states, firmly, “I am Groot!”

“Yeah, yeah,” calls the- calls Mr. Rocket, walking towards the door from one side, shaking his head. “They heard you. He’s been worried sick,” he sneers at Peter. “You look like shit, didn’t Birdbrain here teach you how to duck?”

Peter smiles down at him, grateful his lip is healed enough to handle the stretch because he can’t seem to dampen his expression. “Yes, sir, but you know, we never practiced it with so much razzle dazzle distractin’ us, you know.”

Mr. Rocket leans in and says, “Speakin’ of distracting, Groot’s all upset you didn’t get to see your bear, you better go with him, first thing.”

Gamora has wandered over, in a bathing outfit that covers scandalously few of her tattoos, and her and Clint share a look, one that stretches out between them like taffy, slow and thick with shared understanding.

“I did my best,” mutters Clint eventually, shuffling his feet. 

Gamora raises a single eyebrow. “Did I say you didn’t?” she murmurs. A wicked smile flickers across her face as she tells him, “But we both know I would have done better.”

Clint squares up to her, chin jutting just a little, and Peter takes note. Maybe the way to deal with Clint’s obvious guilt isn’t to reassure him but to _challenge_ him on it. He’ll talk about it with Phil, he decides. Phil will know if it’s worth a shot.

“You needed help, too, doll,” says a man in a tight-fitting costume with curly brown hair firmly, a hand wrapping around her waist and pulling her back to him possessively for a moment. Clint and he share a smile at the woman’s huff of annoyance before he continues, “When it was _your_ sister.”

“Had some whatchacall collateral damage to innocent bystanders with that mess, too,” points out Mr. Rocket in his already-familiar sneer. “So you can’t go bragging. Although,” he concedes, “Your sister has brains and Clint’s brother had nothing checked out to him in that department.”

“He sure didn’t,” agrees Clint, before informing Peter, “This is our Starlord, Peter Quill, prince of the death-defying sky show. Peter Stark, m’lord.”

“Heard your outlaw name is Angel,” Peter Quill says, grinning cockily, undeflated by Clint’s obvious mockery. “You might want to think about switching to something a little more… uh, a little less-”

“Oh, I didn’t pick it,” Peter mutters at him, rolling his eyes. “I’d change it in a heartbeat, if they’d let me.” Although, his mind flashes a quick reel of everyone who’s ever called him Angel, how it had sounded, how many voices have caressed him with the name, have coaxed him with the name- and he wonders for a moment if that’s true. Maybe it isn’t still true that he hates it, that he would change it in an instant. Maybe, maybe he would… miss it… a little. Maybe.

“Nope,” chuckles Steve. He smiles sharply at the acrobat and says, “And if you want it changed, you can apply to the Hellcat, he’s been dying to have another reason for a quiet talk in a secluded corner with you.”

“Nope, no thank you,” laughs Peter Quill, raising his hands, “ _that_ is one cat I don’t need brushing up against me looking for a scratching post.”

“Aw, yes,” shouts Clint, and Peter follows his line of sight to the right, to the path that usually leads to the arbor and, from the arbor, to the pool. Walking through the archway is, in fact, a man with a bear ambling behind him. The man is pencil thin, with a matching mustache, and he’s carrying a bike over one shoulder. 

“Heya,” he calls to Groot. “Gotcher Misha, you gonna show the kid? Been harpin’ about it all week,” he mutters, setting the bike down by Peter and nodding, before ambling off to go to his next assigned task. Peter’s shocked as the bear bumbles up to Groot and presses against him, knocking the man to one side. Groot pats the bear and motions for Peter to come over. Finally, there, ten feet from the door of Stark Mansion and with half of Clint’s circus looking on, Harley and Steve laughing to his left, Peter _finally_ meets his bear… and is too scared to reach out a hand to touch it.

The bear is huge, even on his four paws, huge and fierce, his eyes full of dark liquid savageness that steals Peter’s breath from his lungs as he swings his head back and forth, leaning on Groot so hard the other man stumbles again. The bear grunts at the stumble, and wraps one hand around Groot’s leg, making Peter gasp because those claws are huge, man-rendingly huge. The paw itself is bigger than Peter’s entire head.

“C’mon, Angel,” chuckles Clint. “Got a date with destiny, here, don’t make it wait any longer than it already has. Misha likes a good scratch behind his ears.”

Clint grabs Peter’s hand and presses it down, deep into the bear’s fur. Peter tries half-heartedly to pull back, so much so that Clint is chuckling as he mutters, “C’mon, Angel, scratch, they didn’t bring him all this way up here for you to just clap eyes on him.”

When Peter tentatively gives a scratch, the big beast’s eyes close and he rumbles. Peter stares, transfixed, and scratches harder, and is rewarded by Misha bowing his head, pushing up just a little. The harder Peter scratches, the more the bear pushes, until soon his bulk is almost wrapped around Peter, he’s so close. Peter has no idea how long he’s been standing there, his hands on a bear, _in a bear’s fur_ , when Groot startles him by muttering, “I am Groot.”

Peter raises his eyes from the bear slowly, to look at Groot’s strange bark-skinned face. Groot holds up a small piece of honeycomb, his eyes alight, and grabs for Peter’s other hand, placing the honeycomb in his palm.

Misha the bear’s eyes light up as he hefts his weight forward, settling into what looks like an awkward sitting position, hunched over Peter’s outstretched hand. “Misha,” whispers Peter, completely, flat-footedly awed and half in love with the creature. 

“Go on, have it,” he invites the bear, gesturing with his hand. The bear’s enormous paws come up to wrap around Peter’s entire arm, drawing the hand clumsily to his mouth, where his rough pink tongue licks out and wraps around the honeycomb. The bear chews contemplatively, eyeing up Peter, sniffing from time to time before licking Peter’s hand thoroughly and grunting. He swings his head to Groot, who shrugs and tells him, “I am Groot,” apologetically. The bear huffs back to him, as if he understood. Maybe he did, Peter thinks with a sense of wonder. Maybe the bear did.

Clint chuckles, “He live up to the hype, kid?”

Peter nods silently, and Clint ruffles his hair. “Well, you can come back, watch him bike a bit, gonna take a bit to get his show set up here. Let’s go see who all made the trek up the hill, huh?”

“Gamora grabbed your Hellcat and headed inside when you was messing with the bear,” sighs the rac-- Mr. Rocket. “Think she’s aiming herself at doubling those c-notes you promised, walking away heavier by a cool grand.”

“Smart dame, bet she doesn’t do much more than show off some of them fightin’ and balance things she does, the katas or whatever,” says Clint admiringly. Peter nods, allowing himself to be drawn over to the cage of monkeys with the men. “Aw, gross,” says Clint. “Not the- Peter, can we skip ‘em? Just this once?”

“I like the monkeys,” says Tony, coming up to them with Pepper close behind and clapping his hands on Peter’s shoulders. “What’s wrong with the monkeys? Cheeky little clever devils.”

“The shit,” mutters Clint. “You ain’t got any idea how much they love flinging their shit.”

“Can’t be any worse than the crap that gets flung at us in managerial meetings, eh, Mrs. Stark?” laughs Tony, shaking Peter just a bit. Peter grudgingly grins because it’s a tired joke but it’s true. Pepper replies cooly, “Nor any better, sad to say. Why do we keep the Philadelphia office open?”

“No business,” declares Peter. “If Pepper can say no business at the table, I’m saying no business at circuses.”

“That’s gonna be your line in the sand, son?” mocks Tony, and that’s such a good sound. The whole week, Peter’s gotten his way with pretty much everything, it’s so _good_ to hear Tony mocking him, teasing him. Peter twists to look up at Tony for a long moment and then he nods, firmly. Tony’s eyes light up and he opens his mouth, clearly about to negotiate for better terms. Peter steels himself for the first sally. Pepper, however, blows out a breath and says, “Sold. Care to stroll me through for a glance at all the wild animals whose cages I _don’t_ have to clean, Peter Stark?”

Peter offers her his arm promptly as Tony splutters about selling short in a faulty, rigged-up market. Pepper takes his arm graciously and turns back as Peter begins to lead her away to say, “Your other son has that nice tattooed lady up in his rooms, Mr. Stark. You might want to go recoup the value of that coupon Natasha bought for you last year.”

“Hot damn!” exclaims Tony in disbelief. “Miss me, Mrs. Stark?”

“Always, Mr. Stark,” she promises, before turning and exclaiming, “Oh, Peter, look, a real tiger, please, might’n’t we stroll that way, first?”

He smiles at her, gleefully, because there’s a _tiger_ on the _back lawn_ , and its trainer is making it do tricks, jumping from wicker chair to wicker chair. When their eyes meet, she smiles back, a picture of perfect contentment.

“Did you know?” he asks her, as they walk, his stride shortening to match to her graceful pace. She makes a noise of inquiry and he expands, “Did you know he was going to do all this?”

“Peter,” she sighs, a fond smile fixing on her face as he shifts to look up at her obliquely. “Angel, whoever do you think came up with the funds for this, coordinated the groundskeepers?”

Oh. He smiles a small smile at her and says, “So I’ve been entirely and completely forgiven then, ma’am?”

She watches the tiger with narrowed eyes, stopping them several long paces away, and says, “Consider this a reward for a week of good behavior in the face of extreme annoyance, Master Stark.”

“They’ve been horrible,” he tells her in a puff of exasperation.

“They have been,” she agrees, tightening her arm in his, her eyes never leaving the tiger, leaping from chair to chair. “But you, Master Stark, have been an angel. I’ve watched you settle him, you know, and he’s usually, after a fright like that- well. You’ve been good for him, good for us all. It would drive me batty to have him hover, but you really don’t seem to mind, do you?”

Peter thinks of all the long hours spent at Tony’s side, reading or just sitting, the long naps, how the man took an hour to say goodnight every night before touring the clubs, the interrupted sleep as he checked on Peter when he got home. He thinks about how his heart felt the first time Clint had left the Mansion, clenched tight with worry, and how Tony had taken him to float in the pool, lazy and calm, his scarred, tanned body gliding through the water, distracting Peter from his worries. The books, the ice cream, the treats, all week long, and the hovering, dark gaze, at the corner of every moment, a shield from any memories.

Not that Tony’d been the only one. Steve had been there, too, a solid presence at Peter’s shoulder and in the night, when Tony was out, sitting on the bed beside Peter, his breath calm and steady, his hands firm and gentle as he rubbed, back and forth, back and forth. The one nightmare Peter’d had- the third or fourth night home- he’d woken up to Steve’s murmuring comfort, and fallen back to sleep with his head on Steve’s chest, listening to the rhythm of the man’s heartbeat. 

“I don’t mind it,” he tells Pepper honestly. “I don’t- you have been so good- this is all so much more-” he stumbles, and then gives up, shrugging.

“Mm,” she hums, content, leaning on him just a bit. “I do love that you value my family as much as you should. I do love that about you, Peter Stark.”

“Is that fairy floss?” gasps Peter, pointing to a booth that has been set up further down the path to the range.

“Mm, and roasted peanuts, popcorn, all manner of treats guaranteed to, let me see, how does Doctor Banner say it, _put you off your chump_ _for days, son_ ,” teases Pepper, imitating the Doc’s deeper voice and sounding more than a little ridiculous. Her eyes twinkle at Peter as she says, “And here’s just the man to guide you through a stroll down that lane. Steve, you’ll stay with me? At least until Happy arrives?”

“I will, Lady,” Steve tells her, as Peter cranes around him and sees Bucky stumping up the walkway right behind him.

“Oh, drat,” says Peter, mindful of his language around Pepper. There goes any chance at self-indulgence, with the grumpy Sergeant glaring at him. “Not _him_.”

“Oh, no, Angel, ya got him all wrong,” chuckles Steve. “Worst sweet-tooth y’ever met. Go on, let him drown you in fried food and sweet sugar. I’ll stay with Pepper, watch the show for a bit.”

Bucky smiles as he approaches and Peter eyes him a little doubtfully. “I’m going to eat my body weight in fairy floss,” he challenges Bucky when he judges the man is in earshot.

“Well, it’ll take you all night, and you’ll miss out on the chocolate covered sweets, but I believe in you,” laughs Bucky. “Is that where you’re headed next? The treats?”

“Yes,” says Peter bluntly, eyeing up Bucky suspiciously. 

“Well, let a native be your guide,” Bucky tells him, giving him a mocking bow and sweeping one arm out towards the path. “You ever had fresh-pulled taffy, Angel?”

“Noo,” drawls Peter, taking a step or two along the path.

“Oh, Angel,” chuckles Bucky, delighted, pulling Peter into a headlock as they walk. “Here, let me treat ya. How about rock candy?”

“I love it,” declares Peter with authority, attempting to squirm out of the lock.

“Well, good. Circus peanuts?”

Peter scoffs, pushing on Bucky’s arm, “You can get those at any penny counter, Bucky.”

Bucky smiles down at him and says, “Yeah, but can you get them _fresh_?”

Peter hesitates. “Fresh?” he asks.

“Gooey. Soft,” elaborates Bucky, with a smile twitching his lips. He starts walking again, and Peter scrambles to keep up until Bucky barks a laugh and lets him stand.

Peter gives a short giggle, straightening his collar, and says, “Okay, Sugar Sheik, lead on, I’ll follow.”

“Ahh, yes,” sighs Bucky, loftily, “My due, finally, I receive my due.”

“Yeah, take notes,” retorts Peter, “jury’s out until I’m stuffed and it’s all been good.”

“Angel,” declares Bucky, “there’s no way you can be ready to hit this midway with me.”

“Oh, I’m ready,” counters Peter. He looks over the gathered insanity- the people bustling here and there, servants laughing as they mingle with the circus folk, who seem to view this as a quick vacation before loading up for the next leg of their trip. The animals are bellowing and chortling and ambling around half-tamed, the games are set up and completely abandoned. The barkers are gathered around Natasha, as she cooly tosses rings and is clearly winning against impossible odds, if Doc Banner’s impressed expression is any sign. It’s absolute chaos and unbelievable- he’s being taught how to figure the expense of things and the number keeps climbing and climbing, the longer he’s out here. He’s pretty sure Tony and Harley are upstairs, out of sight in the big bed in his room, doing something devilish with the girlfriend of the other Peter, who is blithely flirting with Karen while Happy looks on like a black cloud. Pepper gasps and clings to Steve’s arm as the trainer lights a hoop on fire, and Steve pats her hand and pulls her closer still, lips moving in a murmur that Peter can’t read from this angle. 

He turns back to look up at Bucky, who is watching him with a small smile and mocking laughter in his eyes, thinking who knows what wolfish thoughts about Peter’s breathless excitement and self-certain confidence.

He takes a deep breath before assuring Bucky, “I think I’m ready for anything, sir.”

Bucky laughs, and Peter smiles, and then they turn as one to the first food vendor, with a display full of fresh pastries drizzled with frosting. Peter hesitates, torn between all of the delicious looking delights, but Bucky orders, confidently, “Kid’ll have a bear claw. Stark’s buying.”

The man in the white paper hat nods his head and reaches out with his tongs flashing, flipping the pastry onto a square of wax paper and passing it over to Bucky with a grin. “Stark’s already bought,” he informs Bucky cheekily. “You want one, too?”

“Nah, pacing myself,” Bucky informs him, passing it to Peter with a flash of a grin.

Peter frowns at this statement, considering it as he takes his first bite. As he chews, he rips a claw from the dessert, holding it up invitingly and crooning at Bucky, trying to get the cadence exactly right, trying to remember the exact words Bucky had used with him, that day so many months ago, “C’mon, Wolf, open up, just a little, won’t hurt you, won’t dirty you up. Just a little.”

He watches Bucky’s eyes flash dark with memories and smiles, happy that Bucky remembers, happy that he’s trapped the man here, on the grounds where dozens of circus performers mill around, where the man won’t be able to retaliate for some time. He presses the pastry to the man’s lips and teases in a low voice, just above a whisper, “C’mon, Wolf, just one little bite, won’t hurt you, open up.”

The man’s eyes flash and Peter jumps a little as he snaps at Peter’s fingers, letting out a delighted chuckle.

“You watch yourself, Peter Stark, and the things you start,” mutters the bodyguard blackly, rubbing at his lips as he chews. 

“Oh, I’m ready,” Peter laughs at him. “I’m ready for anything.”

Bucky’s lips twitch as his hands flash out and pull Peter into another chokehold. As Peter struggles, laughing, he tells the vendor, “Tasty, thanks.”

“Taffy!” croaks Peter.

Bucky shakes him and corrects him by saying severely, “Fairy floss next, _then_ taffy. Sticky, then chewy.”

Peter shrugs out of the hold by dropping to his knees, and takes a huge bite of the bear claw before tossing it to Bucky and taking off. He’s sprinting for the taffy stand, laughing as Bucky shouts, “Peter Stark!” before chasing after him.

He _is_ Peter Stark, and that’s one of the new constants in his universe- where ever he goes, whatever he does, another Stark will always be just behind him, eager to get him back, eager to pull him tight, back with his family, where he best belongs.

~~~

Later that night, he’s settling into bed, breathing hard as Tony and Harley laugh breathlessly on either side of him. There are four stuffed bears scattered above their heads on the pillows, four trophies won for him on the makeshift midway by various champions- Natasha and Clint being unceremoniously banned by the barkers. Peter has no idea who brought them up to the room and arranged them there, but he knows when- during the big show, where Misha road his bike and the acrobats did their tricks and Starlord walked on ropes set between the house and the trees, making Pepper gasp and Harley’s eyes glint dangerously. When Tony and Harley had dragged him up to his room, they’d laughed a moment at the surprise, and then laughed even harder when Peter had insisted they turn the bear’s faces around. He’d forgotten, though, about those beady jet black eyes watching, as they’d set out to give him his own, personal, private show of much more intimate acrobatics.

“Tony,” gasps Harley, “I think he liked it. The circus, I think he _liked_ it.”

“You do?” laughs Tony, just as breathlessly. He’s languid and boneless, stretched out, and Peter scoots over to lay his head on Tony’s chest, Harley scooting just as close, sticky, his head on Tony’s outstretched arm. “Oh, good.”

“But Tony,” teases Peter, tilting his head to look up at the man, trying to make his eyes wide and innocent, “how are you gonna top all of that for my birthday?”

Harley bursts into laughter as Tony’s head cranes to look down at Peter. A smug smile crosses his lips as he leans forward to peck Peter on the lips that have healed and peeled and healed again. “Oh,” he murmurs, “I’ll think of something.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! We made it! Peter got to pet his bear!!
> 
> Whew. 
> 
> So, I'll post when it's ready, add a chapter here or something, but after a few people requested it, I wrote this whole story from the Devilside perspective, which, let me tell you, I don't LIKE torture and violence, so, I mean, this is absolutely a gift to you readers who requested the Devilside perspective. This story is 102 pages long and like 45,000 words or something, and the fact that I re-wrote it for you from a vantage point that is ICKY TO ME, well. I love you, here is your present, please take it and enjoy.
> 
> It'll go up in the Kitten Licks series yet this week, if I can get the final smut written the way I want today or tomorrow. The smut is all gifts to mindwiped, and it's just for the Kitten Licks series, so it'll be mostly unbeta'd (sometimes they can't help themselves even when they know they're not 'on the clock,' lol) at time of publishing.
> 
> And then, THEN, you know what's next, right?! RIGHT?! DID I DROP A STRONG ENOUGH HINT?!


	8. Link to Devilside Point of View for this Story

Hi!

This is just a chapter to let you know that if you would LIKE to explore the Devilside of this story, that is now posted here:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23950999/chapters/57602248

Some notes for consideration, before you rush off:

Please check the tags. I believe this, the main series, skirts the edges of darkfic. The Kitten Licks series often does not. There are real triggers over there, where here we enjoy thrills and anticipation and dip our toes in the shallow end of danger. If you have concerns about specific triggers and wish to email me to discuss them, I will get back to you as soon as I can: tellmenoagainplease@gmail.com Or throw something here, in the comment section, if you need to. It is never my goal to trick someone into reading something that harms them.

I have tried to make it into its own one-shot kind of thing, while also doing justice to the complexity of the POV character's inner world/mind/backstory, etc. It is 6 chapters long at this point and I may add another chapter of smut I have knocking around my noggin. I will TRY to ensure that any character points I have written in that story are not assumed to be known by the reader for stories in THIS series so that you do not have to read something that may make you uncomfortable just to keep up with the main story here.  
  
Yay! 500,000+ words in 5 months (give or take)! That's a big number for someone who _wasn't sure about trying to write something._

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a link to the song in the title, if you want it: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5mLomu4pxZw
> 
> You can absolutely meet me in the comments section with ideas for future scenes and chapters in this AU. It's definitely very work-in-progress.
> 
> ALSO ALSO, I am looking for new stories/authors to read. If you want to make it feel like my birthday, you could take this opportunity to throw me some links to your faves! Anything well written works for me (it doesn't HAVE to be filthy, but filthy's fine, I'm fine with filthy. LOOK AT WHAT I WRITE, I'm fine with filthy)!


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